Liza by Ivan TurgenevA Nest of Nobles (page 4)

XXXV.

For more than two hours Lavretsky wandered about the streets. The night he had spent in the suburbs of Paris came back into his mind. His heart seemed rent within him, and his brain felt vacant and as it were numbed, while the same set of evil, gloomy, mad thoughts went ever circling in his mind. “She is alive; she is here,” he whispered to himself with constantly recurring amazement. He felt that he had lost Liza. Wrath seemed to suffocate him. The blow had too suddenly descended upon him. How could he have so readily believed the foolish gossip of a _feuilleton_, a mere scrap of paper? “But if I had not believed it,” he thought, “what would have been the difference? I should not have known that Liza loves me. She would not have known it herself.” He could not drive the thought of his wife out of his mind; her form, her voice, her eyes haunted him. He cursed himself, he cursed every thing in the world.

Utterly tired out, he came to Lemm’s house before the dawn. For a long time he could not get the door opened; at last the old man’s nightcapped head appeared at the window. Peevish and wrinkled, his face bore scarcely any resemblance to that which, austerely inspired, had looked royally down upon Lavretsky twenty-four hours before, from all the height of its artistic grandeur.

“What do you want?” asked Lemm. “I cannot play every night. I have taken a _tisane_.”

But Lavretsky’s face wore a strong expression which could not escape notice. The old man shaded his eyes with his hand, looked hard at his nocturnal visitor, and let him in.

Lavretsky came into the room and dropped on a chair. The old man remained standing before him, wrapping the skirts of his motley old dressing-gown around him, stooping very much, and biting his lips.

“My wife has come,” said Lavretsky, with drooping head, and then he suddenly burst into a fit of involuntary laughter.

Lemm’s face expressed astonishment, but he preserved a grave silence, only wrapping his dressing-gown tighter around him.

“I suppose you don’t know,” continued Lavretsky. “I supposed–I saw in a newspaper that she was dead.”

“O–h! Was it lately you saw that?” asked Lemm.

“Yes.”

“O–h!” repeated the old man, raising his eyebrows, “and she has come here?”

“Yes. She is now in my house, and I–I am a most unfortunate man.”

And he laughed again.

“You are a most unfortunate man,” slowly repeated Lemm.

“Christopher Fedorovich,” presently said Lavretsky, “will you undertake to deliver a note?”

“Hm! To whom, may I ask?”

“To Lizav–“

“Ah! yes, yes, I understand. Very well. But when must the note be delivered?”

“To-morrow, as early as possible.”

“Hm! I might send my cook, Katrin. No, I will go myself.”

“And will you bring me back the answer?”

“I will.”

Lemm sighed.

“Yes, my poor young friend,” he said, “you certainly are–a most unfortunate young man.”

Lavretsky wrote a few words to Liza, telling her of his wife’s arrival, and begging her to make an appointment for an interview. Then he flung himself on the narrow sofa, with his face to the wall. The old man also lay down on his bed, and there long tossed about, coughing and swallowing mouthfuls of his _tisane_.

The morning came; they both arose–strange were the looks they exchanged. Lavretsky would have liked to kill himself just then. Katrin the cook brought them some bad coffee, and then, when eight o’clock struck, Lemm put on his hat and went out saying that he was to have given a lesson at the Kalitines’ at ten o’clock, but that he would find a fitting excuse for going there sooner.

Lavretsky again threw himself on the couch, and again a bitter laugh broke out from the depths of his heart. He thought of how his wife had driven him out of the house; he pictured to himself Liza’s position, and then he shut his eyes, and wrung his hands above his head.

At length Lemm returned and brought him a scrap of paper, on which Liza had traced the following words in pencil: “We cannot see each other to-day; perhaps we may to-morrow evening. Farewell.” Lavretsky thanked Lemm absently and stiffly, and then went home.

He found his wife at breakfast. Ada, with her hair all in curl-papers, and dressed in a short white frock with blue ribbons, was eating a mutton cutlet. Varvara Pavlovna rose from her seat the moment Lavretsky entered the room, and came towards him with an expression of humility on her face. He asked her to follow him into his study, and when there he shut the door and began to walk up and down the room. She sat down, folded her hands, and began to follow his movements with eyes which were still naturally beautiful, besides having their lids dyed a little.

For a long time Lavretsky could not begin what he had to say, feeling that he had not complete mastery over himself. As for his wife, he saw that she was not at all afraid of him, although she looked as if she might at any moment go off into a fainting fit.

“Listen, Madame,” at last he began, breathing with difficulty, and at times setting his teeth hard. “There is no reason why we should be hypocritical towards each other. I do not believe in your repentance; but even if it were genuine, it would be impossible for me to rejoin you and live with you again.”

Varvara Pavlovna bit her lips and half closed her eyes. “That’s dislike,” she thought. “It’s all over. I’m not even a woman for him.”

“Impossible,” repeated Lavretsky, and buttoned his coat. “I don’t know why you have been pleased to honor me by coming here. Most probably you are out of funds.”

“Don’t say that–you wound my feelings,” whispered Varvara Pavlovna.

“However that may be, you are still, to my sorrow, my wife. I cannot drive you away, so this is what I propose. You can go to Lavriki–to-day if you like–and live there! There is an excellent house there, as you know. You shall have every thing you can want, besides your allowance. Do you consent?”

Varvara Pavlovna raised her embroidered handkerchief to her face.

“I have already told you,” she said, with a nervous twitching of her lips, “that I will agree to any arrangement you may please to make for me. At present I have only to ask you–will you at least allow me to thank you for your generosity?”

“No thanks, I beg of you–we shall do much better without them,” hastily exclaimed Lavretsky. “Then, he added, approaching the door, I may depend upon–“

“To-morrow I will be at Lavriki,” replied Varvara Pavlovna, rising respectfully from her seat. “But Fedor Ivanich–” (“She no longer familiarly called him Theodore).

“What do you wish to say?”

“I am aware that I have not yet in any way deserved forgiveness. But may I hope that, at least, in time–“

“Ah, Varvara Pavlovna,” cried Lavretsky, interrupting her, “you are a clever woman; but I, too, am not a fool. I know well that you have no need of forgiveness. Besides, I forgave you long ago; but there has always been a gulf between you and me.”

“I shall know how to submit,” answered Varvara Pavlovna, and bowed her head. “I have not forgotten my fault. I should not have wondered if I had learnt that you had even been glad to hear of my death,” she added in a soft voice, with a slight wave of her hand towards the newspaper, which was lying on the table where Lavretsky had forgotten it.

Lavretsky shuddered. The _feuilleton_ had a pencil mark against it. Varvara Pavlovna gazed at him with an expression of even greater humility than before on her face. She looked very handsome at that moment. Her grey dress, made by a Parisian milliner, fitted closely to her pliant figure, which seemed almost like that of a girl of seventeen. Her soft and slender neck, circled by a white collar, her bosom’s gentle movement under the influence of her steady breathing, her arms and hands, on which she wore neither bracelets nor rings, her whole figure, from her lustrous hair to the tip of the scarcely visible _bottine_, all was so artistic!

Lavretsky eyed her with a look of hate, feeling hardly able to abstain from crying _brava_, hardly able to abstain from striking her down–and went away.

An hour later he was already on the road to Vasilievskoe, and two hours later Varvara Pavlovna ordered the best carriage on hire in the town to be got for her, put on a simple straw hat with a black veil, and a modest mantilla, left Justine in charge of Ada, and went to the Kalitines’. From the inquiries Justine had made, Madame Lavretsky had learnt that her husband was in the habit of going there every day.

XXXVI.

The day on which Lavretsky’s wife arrived in O.–sad day for him–was also a day of trial for Liza. Before she had had time to go down-stairs and say good morning to her mother, the sound of a horse’s hoofs was heard underneath the window, and, with a secret feeling of alarm, she saw Panshine ride into the court-yard. “It is to get a definite answer that he has come so early,” she thought; and she was not deceived. After taking a turn through the drawing-room, he proposed to go into the garden with her; and when there he asked her how his fate was to be decided.

Liza summoned up her courage, and told him that she could not be his wife. He listened to all she had to say, turning himself a little aside, with his hat pressed down over his eyes. Then, with perfect politeness, but in an altered tone, he asked her if that was her final decision, and whether he had not, in some way or other, been the cause of such a change in her ideas. Then he covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, breathed one quick sigh, and took his hand away from his face.

“I wanted to follow the beaten track,” he said sadly; “I wanted to choose a companion for myself according to the dictates of my heart. But I see that it is not to be. So farewell to my fancy!”

He made Liza a low bow, and went back into the house.

She hoped he would go away directly; but he went to her mother’s boudoir, and remained an hour with her. As he was leaving the house he said to Liza, “_Votre mere vous appelle: Adieu a jamais_!” then he got on his horse, and immediately set off at full gallop.

On going to her mother’s room, Liza found her in tears. Panshine had told her about his failure.

“Why should you kill me? Why should you kill me?” Thus did the mortified widow begin her complaint. “What better man do you want? Why is he not fit to be your husband? A chamberlain! and so disinterested Why, at Petersburg he might marry any of the maids of honor! And I–I had so longed for it. And how long is it since you changed your mind about him? Wherever has this cloud blown from?–for it has never come of its own accord. Surely it isn’t that wiseacre? A pretty adviser you have found, if that’s the case!”

“And as for him, my poor, dear friend,” continued Maria Dmitrievna, “how respectful he was, how attentive, even in the midst of his sorrow! He has promised not to desert me. Oh, I shall never be able to bear this! Oh, my head is beginning to ache dreadfully! Send Palashka here. You will kill me, if you don’t think better of it. Do you hear?” And then, after having told Liza two or three times that she was ungrateful, Maria Dmitrievna let her go away.

Liza went to her room. But before she had had a moment’s breathing-time after her scene with Panshine and with her mother, another storm burst upon her, and that from the quarter from which she least expected it.

Marfa Timofeevna suddenly came into her room, and immediately shut the door after her. The old lady’s face was pale; her cap was all awry; her eyes were flashing, her lips quivering. Liza was lost in astonishment. She had never seen her shrewd and steady aunt in such a state before.

“Very good, young lady!” Marfa Timofeevna began to whisper, with a broken and trembling voice. “Very good! Only who taught that, my mother–Give me some water; I can’t speak.”

“Do be calm, aunt. What is the matter?” said Liza, giving her a glass of water. “Why, I thought you didn’t like M. Panshine yourself.”

Marfa Timofeevna pushed the glass away. “I can’t drink it. I should knock out my last teeth, if I tried. What has Panshine to do with it? Whatever have we to do with Panshine? Much better tell me who taught you to make appointments with people at night. Eh, my mother!”

Liza turned very pale.

“Don’t try to deny it, please,” continued Marfa Timofeevna. “Shurochka saw it all herself, and told me. I’ve had to forbid her chattering, but she never tells lies.”.–

“I am not going to deny it, aunt,” said Liza, in a scarcely audible voice.

“Ah, ah! Then it is so, my mother. You made an appointment with him, that old sinner, that remarkably sweet creature!”

“No.”

“How was it, then?”

“I came down to the drawing-room to look for a book. He was in the garden; and he called me.”

“And you went? Very good, indeed! Perhaps you love him, then?”

“I do love him,” said Liza quietly.

“Oh, my mothers! She does love him!” Here Marfa Timofeevna took off her cap. “She loves a married man! Eh? Loves him!”

“He had told me–” began Liza.

“What he had told you, this little hawk? Eh, what?”

“He had told me that his wife was dead.”

Marfa Timofeevna made the sign of the cross. “The kingdom of heaven be to her,” she whispered. “She was a frivolous woman. But don’t let’s think about that. So that’s how it is. I see, he’s a widower. Oh yes, he’s going ahead. He has killed one wife, and now he’s after a second. A nice sort of person he is, to be sure. But, niece, let me tell you this, in my young days things of this kind used to turn out very badly for girls. Don’t be angry with me, my mother. It’s only tools who are angry with the truth. I’ve even told them not to let him in to see me to-day. I love him, but I shall never forgive him for this. So he is a widower! Give me some water. But as to your putting Panshine’s nose out of joint, why I think you’re a good girl for that. But don’t go sitting out at night with men creatures. Don’t make me wretched in my old age, and remember that I’m not altogether given over to fondling. I can bite, too–A widower!”

Marfa Timofeevna went away, and Liza sat down in a corner, and cried a long time. Her heart was heavy within her. She had not deserved to be so humiliated. It was not in a joyous manner that love had made itself known to her. It was for the second time since yesterday morning that she was crying now. This new and unlooked-for feeling had only just sprung into life within her heart, and already how deafly had she had to pay for it, how roughly had other hands dealt with her treasured secret! She felt ashamed, and hurt, and unhappy; but neither doubt nor fear troubled her, and Lavretsky became only still dearer to her. She had hesitated so long as she was not sure of her own feelings; but after that interview, after that kiss–she could no longer hesitate. She knew now that she loved, and that she loved earnestly, honestly; she knew that her’s was a firm attachment, one which would last for her whole life. As for threats, she did not fear them. She felt that this tie was one which no violence could break.

XXXVII.

Maria Dmitrievna was greatly embarrassed when she was informed that Madame Lavretsky was at the door. She did not even know whether she ought to receive her, being afraid of offending Lavretsky; but at last curiosity prevailed. “After all,” she thought, “she is a relation, too.” So she seated herself in an easy chair, and said to the footman, “Show her in.”

A few minutes went by, then the door was thrown open, and Varvara Pavlovna, with a swift and almost noiseless step, came up to Maria Dmitrievna, and, without giving her time to rise from her chair, almost went down upon her knees before her.

“Thank you, aunt,” she began in Russian, speaking softly, but in a tone of deep emotion. “Thank you; I had not even dared to hope that you would condescend so far. You are an angel of goodness.”

Having said this, Varvara Pavlovna unexpectedly laid hold of one of Maria Dmitrievna’s hands, gently pressed it between her pale-lilac Jouvin’s gloves, and then lifted it respectfully to her pouting, rosy lips. Maria Dmitrievna was entirely carried away by the sight of such a handsome and exquisitely dressed woman almost at her feet, and did not know what position to assume. She felt half inclined to draw back her hand, half inclined to make her visitor sit down, and to say something affectionate to her. She ended by rising from her chair and kissing Varvara’s smooth and perfumed forehead.

Varvara appeared to be totally overcome by that kiss.

“How do you do? _bonjour_,” said Maria Dmitrievna. “I never imagined–however, I’m really delighted to see you. You will understand, my dear, it is not my business to be judge between a man and his wife.”

“My husband is entirely in the right,” said Varvara Pavlovna, interrupting her, “I alone am to blame.”

“Those are very praiseworthy sentiments, very,” said Maria Dmitrievna. “Is it long since you arrived? Have you seen him? But do sit down.”

“I arrived yesterday,” answered Varvara Pavlovna, seating herself on a chair in an attitude expressive of humility. “I have seen my husband, and I have spoken with him.”

“Ah! Well, and what did he say?”

“I was afraid that my coming so suddenly might make him angry,” continued Varvara Pavlovna; “but he did not refuse to see me.”

“That is to say, he has not–Yes, yes, I understand,” said Maria Dmitrievna. “It is only outwardly that he seems a little rough; his heart is really soft.”

“Fedor Ivanovich has not pardoned me. He did not want to listen to me. But he has been good enough to let me have Lavriki to live in.”

“Ah, a lovely place!”

“I shall set off there to-morrow, according to his desire. But I considered it a duty to pay you a visit first.”

“I am very, very much obliged to you my dear. One ought never to forget one’s relations. But do you know I am astonished at your speaking Russian so well. _C’est etonnant_.”

Varvara Pavlovna smiled.

“I have been too long abroad, Maria Dmitrievna, I am well aware of that. But my heart has always been Russian, and I have not forgotten my native land.”

“Yes, yes. There’s nothing like that. Your husband certainly didn’t expect you in the least. Yes, trust my experience–_la patrie avant tout_. Oh! please let me! What a charming mantilla you have on!”

“Do you like it?” Varvara took it quickly off her shoulders. “It is very simple; one of Madame Baudran’s.”

“One can see that at a glance. How lovely, and in what exquisite taste! I feel sure you’ve brought a number of charming things with you. How I should like to see them!”

“All my toilette is at your service, dearest aunt. I might show your maid something if you liked. I have brought a maid from Paris, a wonderful needle-woman.”

“You are exceedingly good, my dear. But, really, I haven’t the conscience–“

“Haven’t the conscience!” repeated Varvara Pavlovna, in a reproachful tone. “If you wish to make me happy, you will dispose of me as if I belonged to you.”

Maria Dmitrievna fairly gave way.

“_Vous etes charmante_,” she said. But why don’t you take off your bonnet and gloves?”

“What! You allow me?” asked Varvara Pavlovna, gently clasping her hands with an air of deep emotion.

“Of course. You will dine with us, I hope. I–I will introduce my daughter to you.” (Maria Dmitrievna felt embarrassed for a moment, but then, “Well, so be it,” she thought.) “She happens not to be quite well to-day.’

“Oh! _ma tante_, how kind you are!” exclaimed Varvara Pavlovna, lifting her handkerchief to her eyes.

At this moment the page announced Gedeonovsky’s arrival, and the old gossip came in smiling, and bowing profoundly. Maria Dmitrievna introduced him to her visitor. At first he was somewhat abashed, but Varvara Pavlovna behaved to him with such coquettish respectfulness that his ears soon began to tingle, and amiable speeches and gossiping stories began to flow uninterruptedly from his lips.

Varvara Pavlovna listened to him, slightly smiling at times, then by degrees she too began to talk. She spoke in a modest way about Paris, about her travels, about Baden; she made Maria Dmitrievna laugh two or three times, and each time she uttered a gentle sigh afterwards, as if she were secretly reproaching herself for her unbecoming levity; she asked leave to bring Ada to the house; she took off her gloves, and with her smooth white hands she pointed out how and where flounces, ruches, lace, and so forth, were worn; she promised to bring a bottle of new English scent–the Victoria essence–and was as pleased as a child when Maria Dmitrievna consented to accept it as a present; and she melted into tears at the remembrance of the emotion she had experienced when she heard the first Russian bells.

“So profoundly did they sink into my very heart,” she said.

At that moment Liza came into the room.

All that day, ever since the moment when, cold with dismay, Liza had read Lavretsky’s note, she had been preparing herself for an interview with his wife. She foresaw that she would see her, and she determined not to avoid her, by way of inflicting upon herself a punishment for what she considered her culpable hopes. The unexpected crisis which had taken place in her fate had profoundly shaken her. In the course of about a couple of hours her face seemed to have grown thin. But she had not shed a single tear. “It is what you deserve,” she said to herself, repressing, though not without difficulty, and at the cost of considerable agitation, certain bitter thoughts and evil impulses which frightened her as they arose in her mind. “Well, I must go,” she thought, as soon as she heard of Madame Lavretsky’s arrival, and she went.

She stood outside the drawing-room door for a long time before she could make up her mind to open it At last, saying to herself, “I am guilty before her,” she entered the room, and forced herself to look at her, even forced herself to smile. Varvara Pavlovna came forward to meet her as soon as she saw her come in, and made her a slight, but still a respectful salutation.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” she began, in an insinuating tone.” Your mamma has been so indulgent towards me that I hope that you too will be–good to me.”

The expression of Varvara Pavlovna’s face as she uttered these last words, her cunning smile, her cold and, at the same time, loving look, the movements of her arms and shoulders, her very dress, her whole being, aroused such a feeling of repugnance in Liza’s mind that she absolutely could not answer her, and only by a strong effort could succeed in holding out her hand to her. “This young lady dislikes me,” thought Varvara Pavlovna, as she squeezed Liza’s cold fingers, then, turning to Maria Dmitrievna, she said in a half whisper. “_Mais elle est delicieuse_!”

Liza faintly reddened. In that exclamation she seemed to detect a tone of irony and insult. However, she determined not to trust to that impression, and she took her seat at her embroidery frame near the window.

Even there Varvara Pavlovna would not leave her in peace. She came to her, and began to praise her cleverness and taste. Liza’s heart began to beat with painful force. Scarcely could she master her feelings, scarcely could she remain sitting quietly in her place. It seemed to her as if Varvara Pavlovna knew all and were mocking her with secret triumph. Fortunately for her, Gedeonovsky began to talk to Varvara and diverted her attention. Liza bent over her frame and watched her without being observed. “That woman,” she thought, “was once loved by _him_.” But then she immediately drove out of her mind even so much as the idea of Lavretsky. She felt her head gradually beginning to swim, and she was afraid of losing command over herself. Maria Dmitrievna began to talk about music.

“I have heard, my dear,” she began, “that you are a wonderful _virtuosa_.”

“I haven’t played for a long time,” replied Varvara Pavlovna, but she immediately took her seat at the piano and ran her fingers rapidly along the keys. “Do you wish me to play?”

“If you will do us that favor.”

Varvara Pavlovna played in a masterly style a brilliant and difficult study by Herz. Her performance was marked by great power and rapidity.

“_A sylphide_!” exclaimed Gedeonovsky.

“It is wonderful!” declared Maria Dmitrievna. “I must confess you have fairly astonished me, Varvara Pavlovna,” calling that lady by her name for the first time. “Why you might give concerts. We have a musician here, an old German, very learned and quite an original. He gives Liza lessons. You would simply make him go out of his mind.”

“Is Lizaveta Mikhailovna also a musician?” asked Madame Lavretsky, turning her head a little towards her.

“Yes; she doesn’t play badly, and she is very fond I of music. But what does that signify in comparison with you? But we have a young man here besides. You really must make his acquaintance. He is a thorough artist in feeling, and he composes charmingly. He is the only person here who can fully appreciate you”

“A young man?” said Varvara Pavlovna. “What is he? Some poor fellow?”

“I beg your pardon. He is the leading cavalier here, and not here only–_et a Petersbourg_–a chamberlain, received in the best society. You surely must have heard of him–Vladimir Nikolaevich Panshine. He is here on government business–a future minister!”

“And an artist too?”

“An artist in feeling, and so amiable. You shall see him. He has been here a great deal for some time past. I asked him to come this evening. I _hope_ he will come,” added Maria Dmitrievna with a slight sigh and a bitter smile.

Liza understood the hidden meaning of that smile, but she had other things to think about then.

“And he’s young?” repeated Varvara Pavlovna, lightly modulating from key to key.

“Twenty-eight years old–and a most pleasing exterior. _Un jeune homme accompli_.”

“A model young man, one may say,” remarked Gedeonovsky.

Varvara Pavlovna suddenly began to play a noisy waltz by Strauss, beginning with so loud and quick a trill that Gedeonovsky fairly started. Right in the middle of the waltz she passed abruptly into a plaintive air, and ended with the _Fra poco_ out of _Lucia_. She had suddenly remembered that joyful music was not in keeping with her position.

Maria Dmitrievna was deeply touched by the air from _Lucia_, in which great stress was laid upon the sentimental passages.

“What feeling!” she whispered to Gedeonovsky.

“_A Sylphide_!” repeated Gedeonovsky, lifting his eyes to heaven.

The dinner hour arrived. Marfa Timofeevna did not come down from up-stairs until the soup was already placed on the table. She behaved very coldly to Varvara Pavlovna, answering her amiable speeches with broken phrases, and never even looking at her. Varvara soon perceived that there was no conversation to be got out of that old lady, so she gave up talking to her. On the other hand Madame Kalitine became still more caressing in her behavior towards her guest. She was vexed by her aunt’s rudeness.

After all, it was not only Varvara that the old lady would not look at. She did not once look at Liza either, although her eyes almost glowed with a meaning light. Pale, almost yellow, there she sat, with compressed lips, looking as if she were made of stone, and would eat nothing.

As for Liza, she seemed calm, and was so in reality. Her heart was quieter than it had been. A strange callousness, the callousness of the condemned, had come over her.

During dinner Varvara Pavlovna said little. She seemed to have become timid again, and her face wore an expression of modest melancholy. Gedeonovsky was the only person who kept the conversation alive, relating several of his stories, though from time to time he looked timidly at Marfa Timofeevna and coughed. That cough always seized him whenever he was going to embellish the truth in her presence. But this time she did not meddle with him, never once interrupted him.

After dinner it turned out that Varvara Pavlovna was very fond of the game of preference. Madame Kalitine was so pleased at this that she felt quite touched and inwardly thought, “Why, what a fool Fedor Ivanovich must be! Fancy not having been able to comprehend such a woman!”

She sat down to cards with Varvara and Gedeonov sky; but Marfa Timofeevna carried off Liza to her room up-stairs, saying that the girl “had no face left,” and she was sure her head must be aching.

“Yes, her head aches terribly,” said Madame Kalitine, addressing Varvara Pavlovna, and rolling her eyes. “I often have such headaches myself.”

“Really!” answered Varvara Pavlovna.

Liza entered her aunt’s room, and sank on a chair perfectly worn out. For a long time Marfa Timofeevna looked at her in silence, then she quietly knelt down before her, and began, still quite silently, to kiss her hands–first one, and then the other.

Liza bent forwards and reddened–then she began to cry; but she did not make her aunt rise, nor did she withdraw her hands from her. She felt that she had no right to withdraw them–had no right to prevent the old lady from expressing her sorrow, her sympathy–from asking to be pardoned for what had taken place the day before. And Marfa Timofeevna could not sufficiently kiss those poor, pale, nerveless hands; while silent tears poured down from her eyes and from Liza’s too. And the cat, Matros, purred in the large chair by the side of the stocking and the ball of worsted; the long, thin flame of the little lamp feebly wavered in front of the holy picture; and in the next room, just the other side of the door, stood Nastasia Carpovna, and furtively wiped her eyes with a check pocket-handkerchief, rolled up into a sort of ball.

XXXVIII.

Down-stairs, meanwhile, the game of preference went on. Maria Dmitrievna was winning, and was in a very good humor. A servant entered and announced Panshine’s arrival. Maria Dmitrievna let fall her cards, and fidgeted in her chair. Varvara Pavlovna looked at her with a half-smile, and then turned her eyes towards the door.

Panshine appeared in a black dress-coat, buttoned all the way up, and wearing a high English shirt-collar. “It was painful for me to obey; but, you see, I have come;” that was what was expressed by his serious face, evidently just shaved for the occasion.

“Why, Valdemar!” exclaimed Maria Dmitrievna, “you used always to come in without being announced.”

Panshine made no other reply than a look, and bowed politely to Maria Dmitrievna, but did not kiss her hand. She introduced him to Varvara Pavlovna. He drew back a pace, bowed to her with the same politeness and with an added expression of respectful grace, and then took a seat at the card-table. The game soon came to an end. Panshine asked after Lizaveta Mikhailovna, and expressed his regret at hearing that she was not quite well. Then he began to converse with Varvara Pavlovna, weighing every word carefully and emphasizing it distinctly in true diplomatic style, and, when she spoke, respectfully hearing her answers to the end. But the seriousness of his diplomatic tone produced no effect upon Varvara Pavlovna, who would have nothing to do with it. On the contrary, she looked him full in the face with a sort of smiling earnestness, and in talking with him seemed thoroughly at her ease, while her delicate nostrils lightly quivered, as though with suppressed laughter.

Maria Dmitrievna began to extol Varvara’s cleverness. Panshine bent his head politely, as far as his shirt-collar permitted him, declared that he had already been convinced of the exceptional nature of her talents, and all but brought round the conversation to the subject of Metternich himself. Varvara Pavlovna half-closed her velvety eyes, and, having said in a low voice, “But you are an artist also, _un confrere_,” added still lower, “_Venez_!” and made a sign with her head in the direction of the piano. This single word, “_Venez_!” so abruptly spoken, utterly changed Panshine’s appearance, as if by magic, in a single moment. His care-worn air disappeared, he began to smile, he became animated, he unbuttoned his coat, and, saying “I am an artist! Not at all; but you, I hear, are an artist indeed,” he followed Varvara Pavlovna to the piano.

“Tell him to sing the romance, ‘How the moon floats,'” exclaimed Maria Dmitrievna.

“You sing?” asked Varvara Pavlovna, looking at him with a bright and rapid glance. “Sit down there.”

Panshine began to excuse himself.

“Sit down,” she repeated, tapping the back of the chair in a determined manner.

He sat down, coughed, pulled up his shirt-collar, and sang his romance.

“_Charmant_,” said Varvara Pavlovna. “You sing admirably–_vous avez du style_. Sing it again.”

She went round to the other side of the piano, and placed herself exactly opposite Panshine. He repeated his romance, giving a melodramatic variation to his voice. Varvara looked at him steadily, resting her elbows on the piano, with her white hands on a level with her lips. The song ended, “_Charmant! Charmante idee_,” she said, with the quiet confidence of a connoisseur. “Tell me, have you written anything for a woman’s voice–a mezzo-soprano?”

“I scarcely write anything,” answered Panshine. “I do so only now and then–between business hours. But do you sing?”

“Oh yes! do sing us something,” said Maria Dmitrievna.

Varvara Pavlovna tossed her head, and pushed her hair back from her flushed cheeks. Then, addressing Panshine, she said–

“Our voices ought to go well together. Let us sing a duet. Do you know ‘_Son geloso_,’ or ‘_La ci darem_,’ or ‘_Mira la bianca luna_?'”

“I used to sing ‘_Mira la bianca luna_,'” answered Panshine; but it was a long time ago. I have forgotten it now.”

“Never mind, we will hum it over first by way of experiment. Let me come there.”

Varvara Pavlovna sat down to the piano. Panshine stood by her side. They hummed over the duet, Varvara Pavlovna correcting him several times; then they sang it out loud, and afterwards repeated it twice–“_Mira la bianca lu-u-una_.” Varvara’s voice had lost its freshness, but she managed it with great skill. At first Panshine was nervous, and sang rather false, but afterwards he experienced an artistic glow; and, if he did not sing faultlessly, at all events he shrugged his shoulders, swayed his body to and fro, and from time to time lifted his hand aloft, like a genuine vocalist.

Varvara Pavlovna afterwards played two or three little pieces by Thalberg, and coquettishly chanted a French song. Maria Dmitrievna did not know how to express her delight, and several times she felt inclined to send for Liza. Gedeonovsky, too, could not find words worthy of the occasion, and could only shake his head. Suddenly, however, and quite unexpectedly, he yawned, and only just contrived to hide his mouth with his hand.

That yawn did not escape Varvara’s notice. She suddenly turned her back upon the piano, saying, “_Assez de musique comme ca_; let us talk a little,” and crossed her hands before her.

“_Oui, asses de musique_,” gladly repeated Panshine, and began a conversation with her–a brisk and airy conversation, carried on in French. “Exactly as if it were in one of the best Paris drawing-rooms,” thought Maria Dmitrievna, listening to their quick and supple talk.

Panshine felt completely happy. He smiled, and his eyes shone. At first, when he happened to meet Maria Dmitrievna’s eyes, he would pass his hand across his face and frown and sigh abruptly, but after a time he entirely forgot her presence, and gave himself up unreservedly to the enjoyment of a half-fashionable, half-artistic chat.

Varvara Pavlovna proved herself a great philosopher. She had an answer ready for everything; she doubted nothing; she did not hesitate at anything. It was evident that she had talked often and much with all kinds of clever people. All her thoughts and feelings circled around Paris. When Panshine made literature the subject of the conversation, it turned out that she, like him, had read nothing but French books. George Sand irritated her; Balzac she esteemed, although he wearied her; to Eugene Sue and Scribe she ascribed a profound knowledge of the human heart; Dumas and Feval she adored. In reality she preferred Paul de Kock to all the others; but, as may be supposed, she did not even mention his name. To tell the truth, literature did not interest her overmuch.

Varvara Pavlovna avoided with great skill every thing that might, even remotely, allude to her position. In all that she said, there was not even the slightest mention made of love; on the contrary, her language seemed rather to express an austere feeling with regard to the allurements of the passions, and to breathe the accents of disillusionment and resignation.

Panshine replied to her, but she refused to agree with him. Strange to say, however, at the very time when she was uttering words which conveyed what was frequently a harsh judgment, the accents of those very words were tender and caressing, and her eyes expressed–What those charming eyes expressed it would be hard to say, but it was something which had no harshness about it, rather a mysterious sweetness. Panshine tried to make out their hidden meaning, tried to make his own eyes eloquent, but he was conscious that he failed. He acknowledged that Varvara Pavlovna, in her capacity as a real lioness from abroad, stood on a higher level than he; and, therefore, he was not altogether master of himself.

Varvara Pavlovna had a habit of every now and then just touching the sleeve of the person with whom she was conversing. These light touches greatly agitated Panshine. She had the faculty of easily becoming intimate with any one. Before a couple of hours had passed, it seemed to Panshine as if he had known her an age, and as if Liza–that very Liza whom he had loved so much, and to whom he had proposed the evening before–had vanished in a kind of fog.

Tea was brought; the conversation became even more free from restraint than before. Madame Kalitine rang for the page, and told him to ask Liza to come down if her headache was better. At the sound of Liza’s name, Panshine began to talk about self-sacrifice, and to discuss the question as to which is the more capable of such sacrifice–man or woman. Maria Dmitrievna immediately became excited, began to affirm that the woman is the more capable, asserted that she could prove the fact in a few words, got confused over them, and ended with a sufficiently unfortunate comparison. Varvara Pavlovna took up a sheet of music, and half-screening her face with it, bent over towards Panshine, and said in a whisper, while she nibbled a biscuit, a quiet smile playing about her lips and her eyes, “_Elle n’a pas invente la poudre, la bonne dame_.”

Panshine was somewhat astonished, and a little alarmed by Varvara’s audacity, but he did not detect the amount of contempt for himself that lay hid in that unexpected sally, and–forgetting all Maria Dmitrievna’s kindness and her attachment towards him, forgetting the dinners she had given him, the money she had lent him–he replied (unhappy mortal that he was) in the same tone, and with a similar smile, “_Je crois bien_!” and what is more he did not even say “_Je crois bien_!” but “_J’crois ben_!”

Varvara Pavlovna gave him a friendly look, and rose from her seat. At that moment Liza entered the room. Marfa Timofeevna had tried to prevent her going but in vain. Liza was resolved to endure her trial to the end. Varvara Pavlovna advanced to meet her, attended by Panshine, whose face again wore its former diplomatic expression.

“How are you now?” asked Varvara.

“I am better now, thank you,” replied Liza.

“We have been passing the time with a little music,” said Panshine. “It is a pity you did not hear Varvara Pavlovna. She sings charmingly, _en artiste consommee_.”

“Come here, _ma chere_,” said Madame Kalitine’s voice.

With childlike obedience, Varvara immediately went to her, and sat down on a stool at her feet. Maria Dmitrievna had called her away, in order that she might leave her daughter alone with Panshine, if only for a moment. She still hoped in secret that Liza would change her mind. Besides this, an idea had come into her mind, which she wanted by all means to express.

“Do you know,” she whispered to Varvara Pavlovna, “I want to try and reconcile you and your husband. I cannot promise to succeed, but I will try. He esteems me very much, you know.”

Varvara slowly looked up at Maria Dmitrievna, and gracefully clasped her hands together.

“You would be my saviour, _ma tante_,” she said, with a sad voice. “I don’t know how to thank you properly for all your kindness; but I am too guilty before Fedor Ivanovich. He cannot forgive me.”

“But did you actually–in reality–?” began Maria Dmitrievna, with lively curiosity.

“Do not ask me,” said Varvara, interrupting her, and then looked down. “I was young, light headed–However, I don’t wish to make excuses for myself.”

“Well, in spite of all that, why not make the attempt? Don’t give way to despair,” replied Maria Dmitrievna, and was going to tap her on the cheek, but looked at her, and was afraid. “She is modest and discreet,” she thought, “but, for all that, a _lionne_ still!”

“Are you unwell?” asked Panshine, meanwhile.

“I am not quite well,” replied Liza.

“I understand,” he said, after rather a long silence, “Yes, I understand.”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand,” significantly repeated Panshine, who simply was at a loss for something to say.

Liza felt confused, but then she thought, “What does it matter?”

Meanwhile Panshine assumed an air of mystery and maintained silence, looking in a different direction with a grave expression on his face.

“Why I fancy it must be past eleven!” observed Maria Dmitrievna. Her guests understood the hint and began to take leave. Varvara was obliged to promise to come and dine to-morrow, and to bring Ada with her. Gedeonovsky, who had all but gone to sleep as he sat in a corner, offered to escort her home. Panshine bowed gravely to all the party; afterwards, as he stood on the steps after seeing Varvara into her carriage, he gave her hand a gentle pressure, and exclaimed, as she drove away, “_Au revoir_!” Gedeonovsky sat by her side in the carriage, and all the way home she amused herself by putting the tip of her little foot, as if by accident, on his foot. He felt abashed, and tried to make her complimentary speeches. She tittered, and made eyes at him when the light from the street lamps shone Into the carriage. The waltz she had played rang in her ears and excited her. Wherever she might be she had only to imagine a ballroom and a blaze of light, and swift circling round to the sound of music, and her heart would burn within her, her eyes would glow with a strange lustre, a smile would wander around her lips, a kind of bacchanalian grace would seem to diffuse itself over her whole body.

When they arrived at her house Varvara lightly bounded from the carriage, as only a _lionne_ could bound, turned towards Gedeonovsky, and suddenly burst out laughing in his face.

“A charming creature,” thought the councillor of state, as he made his way home to his lodgings, where his servant was waiting for him with a bottle of opodeldoc. “It’s as well that I’m a steady man–But why did she laugh?”

All that night long Marfa Timofeevna sat watching by Liza’s bedside.

XXXIX.

Lavretsky spent a day and a half at Vasilievskoe, wandering about the neighborhood almost all the time. He could not remain long in any one place. His grief goaded him on. He experienced all the pangs of a ceaseless, impetuous, and impotent longing. He remembered the feeling which had come over him the day after his first arrival. He remembered the resolution he had formed then, and he felt angrily indignant with himself. What was it that had been able to wrest him aside from that which he had acknowledged as his duty, the single problem of his future life? The thirst after happiness–the old thirst after happiness. “It seems that Mikhalevich was right after all,” he thought. “You wanted to find happiness in life once more,” he said to himself. “You forgot that for happiness to visit a man even once is an undeserved favor, a steeping in luxury. Your happiness was incomplete–was false, you may say. Well, show what right you have to true and complete happiness! Look around you and see who is happy, who enjoys his life! There is a peasant going to the field to mow. It may be that he is satisfied with his lot. But what of that? Would you be willing to exchange lots with him? Remember your own mother. How exceedingly modest were her wishes, and yet what sort of a lot fell to her share! You seem to have only been boasting before Panshine, when you told him that you had come into Russia to till the soil. It was to run after the girls in your old age that you came. Tidings of freedom, reached you, and you flung aside every thing, forgot every thing, ran like a child after a butterfly.”

In the midst of his reflections the image of Liza constantly haunted him. By a violent effort he tried to drive it away, and along with it another haunting face, other beautiful but ever malignant and hateful features.

Old Anton remarked that his master was not quite himself; and after sighing several times behind the door, and several times on the threshold, he ventured to go up to him, and advised him to drink something hot. Lavretsky spoke to him harshly, and ordered him out of the room: afterwards he told the old man he was sorry he had done so; but this only made Anton sadder than he had been before.

Lavretsky could not stop in the drawing-room. He fancied that his great grandfather, Andrei, was looking out from his frame with contempt on his feeble descendant. “So much for you! You float in shallow water!”[A] the wry lips seemed to be saying to him. “Is it possible,” he thought, “that I cannot gain mastery over myself; that I am going to yield to this–this trifling affair!” (Men who are seriously wounded in a battle always think their wounds “a mere trifle;” when a man can deceive himself no longer, it is time to give up living). “Am I really a child? Well, yes I have seen near at hand, I have almost grasped, the possibility of gaining a life-long happiness–and then it has suddenly disappeared. It is just the same in a lottery. Turn the wheel a little more, and the pauper would perhaps be rich. If it is not to be, it is not to be–and all is over. I will betake me to my work with set teeth, and I will force myself to be silent; and I shall succeed, for it is not for the first time that I take myself in hand. And why have I run away? Why do I stop here, vainly hiding my head, like an ostrich? Misfortune a terrible thing to look in the face! Nonsense!”

[Footnote A: See note to page 142.]

“Anton!” he called loudly, “let the tarantass be got ready immediately.”

“Yes,” he said to himself again. “I must compel myself to be silent; I must keep myself tightly in hand.”

With such reflections as these Lavretsky sought to assuage his sorrow; but it remained as great and as bitter as before. Even Apraxia, who had outlived, not only her intelligence, but almost all her faculties, shook her head, and followed him with sad eyes as he started in the tarantass for the town. The horses galloped. He sat erect and motionless, and looked straight along the road.

XL.

Liza had written to Lavretsky the night before telling him to come and see her on this evening; but he went to his own house first. He did not find either his wife or his daughter there; and the servant told him that they had both gone to the Kalitines’! This piece of news both annoyed and enraged him. “Varvara Pavlovna seems to be determined not to let me live in peace,” he thought, an angry feeling stirring in his heart. He began walking up and down the room, pushing away every moment, with hand or foot, one of the toys or books or feminine belongings which fell in his way. Then he called Justine, and told her to take away all that “rubbish.”

“_Oui, monsieur_,” she replied, with a grimace, and began to set the room in order, bending herself into graceful attitudes, and by each of her gestures making Lavretsky feel that she considered him an uncivilized bear. It was with a sensation of downright hatred that he watched the mocking expression of her faded, but still _piquante_, Parisian face, and looked at her white sleeves, her silk apron, and her little cap. At last he sent her away, and, after long hesitation, as Varvara Pavlovna did not return, he determined to go to the Kalitines’, and pay a visit, not to Madame Kalitine (for nothing would have induced him to enter her drawing-room–that drawing-room in which his wife was), but to Marfa Timofeevna. He remembered that a back staircase, used by the maid-servants, led straight to her room.

Lavretsky carried out his plan. By a fortunate chance he met Shurochka in the court-yard, and she brought him to Marfa Timofeevna. He found the old lady, contrary to her usual custom, alone. She was without her cap, and was sitting in a corner of the room in a slouching attitude, her arms folded across her breast. When she saw Lavretsky, she was much agitated, and jumping up hastily from her chair, she began going here and there about the room, as if she were looking for her cap.

“Ah! so you have come, then,” she said, fussing about and avoiding his eyes. “Well, good day to you! Well, what’s–what’s to be done? Where were you yesterday? Well, she has come. Well–yes. Well, it must be–somehow or other.”

Lavretsky sank upon a chair.

“Well, sit down, sit down,” continued the old lady. “Did you come straight up-stairs? Yes, of course. Eh! You came to see after me? Many thanks.”

The old lady paused. Lavretsky did not know what to say to her; but she understood him.

“Liza–yes; Liza was here just now,” she continued tying and untying the strings of her work-bag. “She isn’t quite well. Shurochka, where are you? Come here, my mother; cannot you sit still a moment? And I have a headache myself. It must be that singing which has given me it, and the music.”

“What singing, aunt?”

“What? don’t you know? They have already begun–what do you call them?–duets down there. And all in Italian–chi-chi and cha-cha–regular magpies. With their long drawn-out notes, one would think they were going to draw one’s soul out. It’s that Panshine, and your wife too. And how quickly it was all arranged! Quite without ceremony, just as if among near relations. However, one must say that even a dog will try to find itself a home somewhere. You needn’t die outside if folks don’t chase you away from their houses.”

“I certainly must confess I did not expect this,” answered Lavretsky. “This must have required considerable daring.”

“No, my dear, it isn’t daring with her, it is calculation. However, God be with her! They say you are going to send her to Lavriki. Is that true?”

“Yes; I am going to make over that property to her.”

“Has she asked you for money?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, that request won’t be long in coming. But–I haven’t looked at you till now–are you well?”

“Quite well.”

“Shurochka!” suddenly exclaimed the old lady. “Go and tell Lizaveta Mikhailovna–that is–no–ask her–Is she down-stairs?”

“Yes.”

“Well, yes. Ask her where she has put my book She will know all about it.”

“Very good.”

The old lady commenced bustling about again, and began to open the drawers in her commode. Lavretsky remained quietly sitting on his chair.

Suddenly light steps were heard on the staircase–and Liza entered.

Lavretsky stood up and bowed. Liza remained near the door.

“Liza, Lizochka,” hurriedly began Marfa Timofeevna, “where have you–where have you put my book?”

“What book, aunt?”

“Why, good gracious! that book. However, I didn’t send for you–but it’s all the same. What are you all doing down-stairs? Here is Fedor Ivanovich come. How is your headache?”

“It’s of no consequence.”

“You always say, ‘It’s of no consequence.’ What are you all doing down below?–having music again?”

“No–They are playing cards.”

“Of course; she is ready for anything. Shurochka, I see you want to run out into the garden. Be off!”

“No, I don’t Marfa Timofeevna–“

“No arguing, if you please. Be off. Nastasia Carpovna has gone into the garden by herself. Go and keep her company. You should show the old lady respect.”

Shurochka left the room.

“But where is my cap? Wherever can it have got to?”

“Let me look for it,” said Liza.

“Sit still, sit still! My own legs haven’t dropped off yet. It certainly must be in my bed-room.”

And Marfa Timofeevna went away, after casting a side-glance at Lavretsky. At first she left the door open, but suddenly she returned and shut it again from the outside.

Liza leant back in her chair and silently hid her face in her hands.

Lavretsky remained standing where he was.

“This is how we have had to see each other!” he said at last.

Liza let her hands fall from before her face.

“Yes,” she replied sadly, “we have soon been punished.”

“Punished!” echoed Lavretsky. “For what have you, at all events, been punished?”

Liza looked up at him. Her eyes did not express either sorrow or anxiety; but they seemed to have become smaller and dimmer than they used to be. Her face was pale; even her slightly-parted lips had lost their color.

Lavretsky’s heart throbbed with pity and with love.

“You have written to me that all is over,” he whispered. “Yes, all is over–before it had begun.”

“All that must be forgotten,” said Liza. “I am glad you have come. I was going to write to you; but it is better as it is. Only we must make the most of these few minutes. Each of us has a duty to fulfil. You, Fedor Ivanovich, must become reconciled with your wife.”

“Liza!”

“I entreat you to let it be so. By this alone can expiation be made for–for all that has taken place. Think over it, and then you will not refuse my request.”

“Liza! for God’s sake! You ask what is impossible. I am ready to do every thing you tell me; but to be reconciled with her _now_!–I consent to every thing, I have forgotten every thing; but I cannot do violence to my heart. Have some pity; this is cruel!”

“But I do not ask you to do what is impossible. Do not live with her if you really cannot do so. But be reconciled with her,” answered Liza, once more hiding her face in her hands. “Remember your daughter; and, besides, do it for my sake.”

“Very good,” said Lavretsky between his teeth. “Suppose I do this–in this I shall be fulfilling my duty; well, but you–in what does your duty consist?”

“That I know perfectly well.”

Lavretsky suddenly shuddered.

“Surely you have not made up your mind to many Panshine?” he asked.

“Oh, no!” replied Liza, with an almost imperceptible smile.

“Ah! Liza, Liza!” exclaimed Lavretsky, “how happy we might have been!”

Liza again looked up at him.

“Now even you must see, Fedor Ivanovich, that happiness does not depend upon ourselves, but upon God.”

“Yes, because you–“

The door of the next room suddenly opened, and Marfa Timofeevna came in, holding her cap in her hand.

“I had trouble enough to find it,” she said, standing between Liza and Lavretsky; “I had stuffed it away myself. Dear me, see what old age comes to! But, after all, youth is no better. Well, are you going to Lavriki with your wife?” she added, turning to Fedor Ivanovich.

“To Lavriki with her? I?–I don’t know,” he added, after a short pause.

“Won’t you pay a visit down stairs?”

“Not to-day.”

“Well, very good; do as you please. But you, Liza, ought to go down-stairs, I think. Ah! my dears. I’ve forgotten to give any seed to my bullfinch too. Wait a minute; I will be back directly.”

And Marfa Timofeevna ran out of the room without even having put on her cap.

Lavretsky quickly drew near to Liza.

“Liza,” he began, with an imploring voice, “we are about to part for ever, and my heart is very heavy. Give me your hand at parting.”

Liza raised her head. Her wearied, almost lustre less eyes looked at him steadily.

“No,” she said, and drew back the hand she had half held out to him. “No, Lavretsky” (it was the first time that she called him by this name), “I will not give you my hand. Why should I? And now leave me, I beseech you. You know that I love you–Yes, I love you!” she added emphatically. “But no–no;” and she raised her handkerchief to her lips.

“At least, then, give me that handkerchief–“

The door creaked. The handkerchief glided down to Liza’s knees. Lavretsky seized it before it had time to fall on the floor, and quickly hid it away in his pocket; then, as he turned round, he encountered the glance of Marfa Timofeevna’s eyes.

“Lizochka, I think your mother is calling you,” said the old lady.

Liza immediately got up from her chair, and left the room.

Marfa Timofeevna sat down again in her corner, Lavretsky was going to take leave of her.

“Fedia,” she said, abruptly.

“What, Aunt?”

“Are you an honorable man?”

“What?”

“I ask you–Are you an honorable man?”

“I hope so.”

“Hm! Well, then, give me your word that you are going to behave like an honorable man.”

“Certainly. But why do you ask that?”

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

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

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

“Tell her I cannot come just now,” began Lavretsky.

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

“Then her visitors have gone away?” asked Lavretsky.

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

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

XLI.

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

Lavretsky came into the room.

“You wanted to see me,” he said, bowing coldly.

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

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

“I am aware of that fact,” said Lavretsky.

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

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

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

Lavretsky smiled and twirled his hat in his hands.

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

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

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

Lavretsky merely shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lavretsky recoiled a pace.

“You have been there all this time!” he exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

“She wants you to pardon her,” repeated Maria Dmitrievna.

“And not for my own sake, but for Ada’s,” whispered Varvara.

“Not for her own sake, but for your Ada’s,” repeated Maria Dmitrievna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Won’t you take her with you?” Maria Dmitrievna called after him.

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

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

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

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

“It is better as it is, my dear aunt. Don’t disturb yourself–all has turned out admirably,” declared Varvara Pavlovna.

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

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

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

XLII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then you are satisfied?”

Liza only made a sign of assent.

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

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

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

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

“You will hear, perhaps–But whatever it may be, forget–No, do not forget me–remember me.”

“I forget you?”

“Enough. Farewell. Please do not follow me.”

“Liza–” began Lavretsky.

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

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

They looked at each other for a time in silence.

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

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

“Yes.”

“And I am going to the left. Good-bye.”

* * * * *

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

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

“Yes, you have attained all your ends,” said Lavretsky.

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

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

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

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

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

XLIII.

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

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

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

Liza looked at her aunt with a meditative air.

“What was that word you used?” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

“I can assure you all this will pass away–all this has already passed away.”

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

“Aunt,” replied Liza, “it has already passed away. All has passed away.”

“Passed away! how passed away? Why your nose has actually grown peaky, and yet you say–‘passed away.’ Passed away indeed!”

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

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

“I–I want–” Here Liza hid her face on Marfa Timofeevna’s breast. “I want to go into a convent,” she said in a low tone.

The old lady fairly bounded off the bed.

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

Liza raised her head; her cheeks glowed.

“No, aunt,” she said, “do not say that. I have prayed, I have asked God’s advice, and I have made up my mind. All is over. My life with you here is ended. Such lessons are not given to us without a purpose; besides, it is not for the first time that I think of it now. Happiness was not for me. Even when I did indulge in hopes of happiness, my heart shuddered within me. I know all, both my sins and those of others, and how papa made our money. I know all, and all that I must pray away, must pray away. I grieve to leave you, I grieve for mamma and for Lenochka; but there is no help for it. I feel that it is impossible for me to live here longer. I have already taken leave of every thing, I have greeted every thing in the house for the last time. Something calls me away. I am sad at heart, and I would fain hide myself away for ever. Please don’t hinder me or try to dissuade me; but do help me, or I shall have to go away by myself.”

Marfa Timofeevna listened to her niece with horror.

“She is ill,” she thought. “She is raving. We must send for a doctor; but for whom? Gedeonovsky praised some one the other day; but then he always lies–but perhaps he has actually told the truth this time.”

But when she had become convinced that Liza was not ill, and was not raving–when to all her objections Liza had constantly made the same reply, Marfa Timofeevna was thoroughly alarmed, and became exceedingly sorrowful.

“But surely you don’t know, my darling, what sort of life they lead in convents!” thus she began, in hopes of dissuading her. “Why they will feed you on yellow hemp oil, my own; they will dress you in coarse, very coarse clothing; they will make you go out in the cold; you will never be able to bear all this Lizochka. All these ideas of yours are Agafia’s doing. It is she who has driven you out of your senses. But then she began with living, and with living to her own satisfaction. Why shouldn’t you live too? At all events, let me die in peace, and then do as you please. And who on earth has ever known any one go into a convent for the sake of such-a-one–for a goat’s beard–God forgive me–for a man! Why, if you’re so sad at heart, you should pay a visit to a convent, pray to a saint, order prayers to be said, but don’t put the black veil on your head, my _batyushka_, my _matyushka_.”

And Marfa Timofeevna cried bitterly.

Liza tried to console her, wiped the tears from her eyes, and cried herself, but maintained her purpose unshaken. In her despair, Marfa Timofeevna tried to turn threats to account, said she would reveal every thing to Liza’s mother; but that too had no effect. All that Liza would consent to do in consequence of the old lady’s urgent entreaties, was to put off the execution of her plan for a half year. In return Marfa Timofeevna was obliged to promise that, if Liza had not changed her mind at the end of the six months, she would herself assist in the matter, and would contrive to obtain Madame Kalitine’s consent.

* * * * *

As soon as the first cold weather arrived, in spite of her promise to bury herself in seclusion, Varvara Pavlovna, who had provided herself with sufficient funds, migrated to St. Petersburg. A modest, but pretty set of rooms had been found for her there by Panshine, who had left the province of O. rather earlier than she did. During the latter part of his stay in O., he had completely lost Madame Kalitine’s good graces. He had suddenly given up visiting her, and indeed scarcely stirred away from Lavriki. Varvara Pavlovna had enslaved–literally enslaved him. No other word can express the unbounded extent of the despotic sway she exercised over him.

Lavretsky spent the winter in Moscow. In the spring of the ensuing year the news reached him that Liza had taken the veil in the B. convent, in one of the most remote districts of Russia.

EPILOGUE.

Eight years passed away. The spring had come again–

But we will first of all say a few words about the fate of Mikhalevich, Panshine, and Madame Lavretsky, and then take leave of them forever.

Mikhalevich, after much wandering to and fro, at last hit upon the business he was fitted for, and obtained the post of Head Inspector in one of the Government Educational Institutes. His lot thoroughly satisfies him, and his pupils “adore” him, though at the same time they mimic him. Panshine has advanced high in the service, and already aims at becoming the head of a department. He stoops a little as he walks; it must be the weight of the Vladimir Cross which hangs from his neck, that bends him forward. In him the official decidedly preponderates over the artist now. His face, though still quite young, has grown yellow, his hair is thinner than it used to be, and he neither sings nor draws any longer. But he secretly occupies himself with literature. He has written a little comedy in the style of a “proverb;” and–as every one who writes now constantly brings on the stage some real person or some actual fact–he has introduced a coquette into it, and he reads it confidentially to a few ladies who are very kind to him. But he has never married, although he has had many excellent opportunities for doing so. For that Varvara Pavlovna is to blame.

As for her, she constantly inhabits Paris, just as she used to do. Lavretsky has opened a private account for her with his banker, and has paid a sufficient sum to ensure his being free from her–free from the possibility of being a second time unexpectedly visited by her. She has grown older and stouter, but she is still undoubtedly handsome, and always dresses in taste. Every one has his ideal. Varvara Pavlovna has found hers–in the plays of M. Dumas _fils_. She assiduously frequents the theatres in which consumptive and sentimental Camelias appear on the boards; to be Madame Doche seems to her the height of human happiness. She once announced that she could not wish her daughter a happier fate. It may, however, be expected that destiny will save Mademoiselle Ada from that kind of happiness. From being a chubby, rosy child, she has changed into a pale, weak-chested girl, and her nerves are already unstrung. The number of Varvara Pavlovna’s admirers has diminished, but they have not disappeared. Some of them she will, in all probability, retain to the end of her days. The most ardent of them in recent times has been a certain Zakurdalo-Skubyrnikof, a retired officer of the guard, a man of about thirty-eight years of age, wearing long mustaches, and possessing a singularly vigorous frame. The Frenchmen who frequent Madame Lavretsky’s drawing-room call him _le gros taureau de l’Ukraine_. Varvara Pavlovna never invites him to her fashionable parties, but he is in full possession of her good graces.

And so–eight years had passed away. Again spring shone from heaven in radiant happiness. Again it smiled on earth and on man. Again, beneath its caress, all things began to love, to flower, to sing.

The town of O. had changed but little in the course of these eight years, but Madame Kalitine’s house had, as it were, grown young again. Its freshly-painted walls shone with a welcome whiteness, while the panes of its open windows flashed ruddy to the setting sun. Out of these windows there flowed into the street mirthful sounds of ringing youthful voices, of never-ceasing laughter. All the house seemed teeming with life and overflowing with irrepressible merriment. As for the former mistress of the house, she had been laid in the grave long ago. Maria Dmitrievna died two years after Liza took the veil. Nor did Marfa Timofeevna long survive her niece; they rest side by side in the cemetery of the town. Nastasia Carpovna also was no longer alive. During the course of several years the faithful old lady used to go every day to pray at her friend’s grave. Then her time came, and her bones also were laid in the mould.

But Maria Dmitrievna’s house did not pass into the hands of strangers, did not go out of her family–the nest was not torn to pieces. Lenochka, who had grown into a pretty and graceful girl; her betrothed, a flaxen locked officer of hussars; Maria Dmitrievna’s son, who had only recently married at St. Petersburg, and had now arrived with his young bride to spend the spring in O.; his wife’s sister, a sixteen-year-old Institute-girl, with clear eyes and rosy cheeks; and Shurochka, who had also grown up and turned out pretty–these were the young people who made the walls of the Kalitine house resound with laughter and with talk. Every thing was altered in the house, every thing had been made to harmonize with its new inhabitants. Beardless young servant-lads, full of fun and laughter, had replaced the grave old domestics of former days. A couple of setters tore wildly about and jumped upon the couches, in the rooms up and down which Roska, after it had grown fat, used to waddle seriously. In the stable many horses were stalled–clean-limbed canterers, smart trotters for the centre of the _troika_, fiery gallopers with platted manes for the side places, riding horses from the Don. The hours for breakfast, dinner, and supper, were all mixed up and confounded together. In the words of neighbors, “Such a state of things as never had been known before” had taken place.

On the evening of which we are about to speak, the inmates of the Kalitine house, of whom the eldest, Lenochka’s betrothed, was not more than four-and-twenty, had taken to playing a game which was not of a very complicated nature, but which seemed to be very amusing to them, to judge by their happy laughter,–that of running about the rooms, and trying to catch each other. The dogs, too, ran about and barked; and the canaries which hung up in cages before the windows, straining their throats in rivalry, heightened the general uproar by the piercing accents of their shrill singing. Just as this deafening amusement had reached its climax, a tarantass, all splashed with mud, drew up at the front gate, and a man about forty-five years old, wearing a travelling dress, got out of it and remained standing as if bewildered.

For some time he stood at the gate without moving, but gazing at the house with observant eyes; then he entered the court-yard by the wicket-gate, and slowly mounted the steps. He encountered no one in the vestibule; but suddenly the drawing-room door was flung open, and Shurochka, all rosy red, came running out of the room; and directly afterwards, with shrill cries, the whole of the youthful band rushed after her. Suddenly, at the sight of an unknown stranger, they stopped short, and became silent; but the bright eyes which were fixed on him still retained their friendly expression, the fresh young faces did not cease to smile. Then Maria Dmitrievna’s son approached the visitor, and politely asked what he could do for him.

“I am Lavretsky,” said the stranger.