One day Lavretsky was as usual at the Kalitines'. An overpoweringly hot afternoon had been followed by such a beautiful evening that Madame Kalitine, notwithstanding her usual aversion to a draught, ordered all the windows and the doors leading into the garden to be opened. Moreover, she announced that she was not going to play cards, that it would be a sin to do so in such lovely weather, and that it was a duty to enjoy the beauties of nature.
Panshine was the only stranger present. Influenced by the evening, and feeling a flow of artistic emotion, but not wishing to sing in Lavretsky's presence, he threw himself into poetry He read—and read well, only with too much consciousness, and with needlessly subtle distinctions—some of Lermontof's poems (Pushkin had not then succeeded in getting back into fashion). Suddenly, as if ashamed of his emotion, he began in reference to the well-knownDuma,[A] to blame and attack the new generation, not losing the opportunity which the subject afforded him of setting forth how, if the power lay in his hands, he would alter everything his own way.
[Footnote A: For the poem, so-called, see note at end of chapter.]
"Russia," he said, "has lagged behind Europe, and must be driven up alongside of it. We are told that ours is a young country. That is all nonsense. Besides, we have no inventive power. Khomakof[A] himself admits that we have never invented so much as a mousetrap. Consequently we are obliged to imitate others, whether we like it or no."
[Footnote A: A poet, who was one of the leaders of the Slavophile party.]
"'We are ill,' says Lermontof, and I agree with him. But we are ill because we have only half become Europeans. With that which has wounded us we must be cured." ("Le cadastre" thought Lavretsky.) "Among us," he continued, "the best heads,les meilleures têtes, have long been convinced of this. In reality, all peoples are alike; only introduce good institutions, and the affair is settled. To be sure, one may make some allowance for the existing life of the nation; that is our business, the business of the people who are" (he all but said "statesmen") "in the public service; but if need arises, don't be uneasy. Those institutions will modify that life itself."
Maria Dmitrievna admiringly agreed with him. "What a clever man to have talking in my house!" she thought. Liza kept silence, leaning back in the recess of the window. Lavretsky kept silence too. Marfa Timofeevna, who was playing cards in a corner with her friend, grumbled something to herself. Panshine walked up and down the room, speaking well, but with a sort of suppressed malice. It seemed as if he was blaming, not so much a whole generation, as some individuals of his acquaintance. A nightingale had made its home in a large lilac bush which stood in the Kalitines' garden, and the first notes of its even-song made themselves heard during the pauses in the eloquent harangue; the first stars began to kindle in the rose-stained sky above the motionless tops of the lime trees. Presently Lavretsky rose and began to reply to Panshine. A warm dispute soon commenced.
Lavretsky spoke in defence of the youth of Russia, and of the capacity of the country to suffice for itself. He surrendered himself and his contemporaries, but he stood up for the new generation, and their wishes and convictions. Panshine replied incisively and irritably, declared that clever people were bound to reform every thing, and at length was carried away to such an extent that, forgetting his position as a chamberlain, and his proper line of action as a member of the civil service, he called Lavretsky a retrogade conservative, and alluded—very distantly it is true—to his false position in society. Lavretsky did not lose his temper, nor did he raise his voice; he remembered that Mikhalevich also had called him a retrograde, and, at the same time a disciple of Voltaire; but he calmly beat Panshine on every point. He proved the impracticability of reforming by sudden bounds, and of introducing changes haughtily schemed on the heights of official self-complacency—changes which were not justified by any intimate acquaintance with the country, nor by a living faith in any ideal, not even in one of negation, and in illustration of this he adduced his own education. He demanded before every thing else that the true spirit of the nation should be recognized, and that it should be looked up to with that humility without which no courage is possible, not even that wherewith to oppose falsehood. Finally he did not attempt to make any defence against what he considered a deserved reproach, that of giving way to a wasteful and inconsiderate expenditure of both time and strength.
"All that is very fine!" at last exclaimed Panshine with vexation."But here are you, just returned to Russia; what do you intend to do?"
"To cultivate the soil," replied Lavretsky; "and to cultivate it as well as possible."
"No doubt that is very praiseworthy," answered Panshine, "and I hear you have already had great success in that line; but you must admit that every one is not fitted for such an occupation—"
"Une nature poétique," said Maria Dmitrievna, "certainly cannot go cultivating the soil—et puis, it is your vocation, Vladimir Nikolaevich, to do every thingen grand."
This was too much even for Panshine, who grew confused, and changed the conversation. He tried to turn it on the beauty of the starry heavens, on Schubert's music, but somehow his efforts did not prove successful. He ended by offering to play at piquet with Maria Dmitrievna. "What! on such an evening as this?" she feebly objected; but then she ordered the cards to be brought.
Panshine noisily tore open a new pack; and Liza and Lavretsky, as if by mutual consent, both rose from their seats and placed themselves near Marfa Timofeevna. They both suddenly experienced a great feeling of happiness, mingled with a sense of mutual dread, which made them glad of the presence of a third person; at the same time, they both felt that the uneasiness from which they had suffered during the last few days had disappeared, and would return no more.
The old lady stealthily tapped Lavretsky on the cheek, screwed up her eyes with an air of pleasant malice, and shook her head repeatedly, saying in a whisper, "You've done for the genius—thanks!" Then all became still in the room. Nothing was to be heard but the faint crackling of the wax lights, and sometimes the fall of a hand on the table, or an exclamation on the score of points, and the song of the nightingale which, powerful, almost insolently loud, flowed in a great wave through the window, together with the dewy freshness of the night.
* * * * *
NOTE.—The following is a tolerably literal translation of the poem of Lermontof's to which allusion is made on p. 208, and which created no slight sensation when it first appeared, in the year 1838:—
Sorrowfully do I look upon the present generation! Its future seems either gloomy or meaningless, and meanwhile, whether under the burden of knowledge or of doubt, it grows old in idleness.
When scarcely out of the cradle, we reap the rich inheritance of the errors of our fathers, and the results of their tardy thoughts. Life soon grows wearisome for us, like a banquet at a stranger's festival, like a level road leading nowhere.
In the commencement of our career, we fall away without a struggle, shamefully careless about right and wrong, shamefully timid in the face of danger.
So does a withered fruit which has prematurely ripened—attractive neither to the eye nor to the palate—hang like an alien orphan among blossoms; and the hour of their beauty is that of its fall.
Our intellect has dried up in the pursuit of fruitless science, while we have been concealing the purest of hopes from the knowledge of those who are near and dear to us, and stifling the noble utterance of such sentiments as are ridiculed by a mocking spirit.
We have scarcely tasted of the cup of enjoyment, but for all that we have not husbanded our youthful strength. While we were always in dread of satiety, we have contrived to drain each joy of its best virtues.
No dreams of poetry, no creations of art, touch our hearts with a sweet rapture. We stingily hoard up within our breasts the last remnants of feeling—a treasure concealed by avarice, and which remains utterly unprofitable.
We love and we hate capriciously, sacrificing nothing either to our animosity or to our affection, a certain secret coldness possessing our souls, even while a fire is raging in our veins.
The sumptuous pleasures of our ancestors weary us, as well as their simple, childish diversions. Without enjoying happiness, without reaping glory, we hasten onwards to the grave, casting naught but unlucky glances behind us.
A saturnine crowd, soon to be forgotten, we silently pass away from the world and leave no trace behind, without having handed down to the ages to come a single work of genius, or even a solitary thought laden with meaning.
And our descendants, regarding our memory with the severity of citizens called to sit in judgment on an affair concerning the state, will allude to us with the scathing irony of a ruined son, when he speaks of the father who has squandered away his patrimony.
Liza had not uttered a single word during the dispute between Lavretsky and Panshine, but she had followed it attentively, and had been on Lavretsky's side throughout. She cared very little about politics; but she was repelled by the self-sufficient tone of the worldly official, who had never shown himself in that light before, and his contempt for Russia offended her. It had never occurred to Liza to imagine that she was a patriot. But she was thoroughly at her ease with the Russian people. The Russian turn of mind pleased her. She would chat for hours, without thinking anything of it, with the chief of the village on her mother's estate, when he happened to come into town, and talk with him as if he were her equal, without any signs of seigneurial condescension. All this Lavretsky knew well. For his own part, he never would have cared to reply to Panshine; it was only for Liza's sake that he spoke.
They said nothing to each other, and even their eyes but rarely met. But they both felt that they had been drawn closer together that evening, they knew that they both had the same likes and dislikes. On one point only were they at variance; but Liza secretly hoped to bring him back to God. They sat down close by Marfa Timofeevna, and seemed to be following her game; nay, more, did actually follow it. But, meantime, their hearts grew full within them, and nothing escaped their senses—for them the nightingale sang softly, and the stars burnt, and the trees whispered, steeped in slumberous calm, and lulled to rest by the warmth and softness of the summer night.
Lavretsky gave himself up to its wave of fascination, and his heart rejoiced within him. But no words can express the change that was being worked within the pure soul of the maiden by his side. Even for herself it was a secret; let it remain, then, a secret for all others also. No one knows, no eye has seen or ever will see, how the grain which has been confided to the earth's bosom becomes instinct with vitality, and ripens into stirring, blossoming life.
Ten o'clock struck, and Marfa Timofeevna went up-stairs to her room with Nastasia Carpovna. Lavretsky and Liza walked about the room, stopped in front of the open door leading into the garden, looked first into the gloaming distance and then at each other—and smiled. It seemed as if they would so gladly have taken each other's hands and talked to their hearts' content.
They returned to Maria Dmitrievna and Panshine, whose game dragged itself out to an unusual length. At length the last "king" came to an end, and Madame Kalitine rose from her cushioned chair, sighing, and uttering sounds of weariness the while. Panshine took his hat, kissed her hand, remarked that nothing prevented more fortunate people from enjoying the night or going to sleep, but that he must sit up till morning over stupid papers, bowed coldly to Liza—with-whom he was angry, for he had not expected that she would ask him to wait so long for an answer to his proposal—and retired. Lavretsky went away directly after him, following him to the gate, where he took leave of him. Panshine aroused his coachman, poking him in the neck with the end of his stick, seated himself in his droshky, and drove away. But Lavretsky did not feel inclined to go home, so he walked out of the town into the fields.
The night was still and clear, although there was no moon. For a long time Lavretsky wandered across the dewy grass. A narrow footpath lay in his way, and he followed it. It led him to a long hedge, in which there was a wicket gate. Without knowing why he did so, he tried to push it open; with a faint creak it did open, just as if it had been awaiting the touch of his hand. Lavretsky found himself in a garden, took a few steps along a lime-tree alley, and suddenly stopped short in utter amazement. He saw that he was in the Kalitines' garden.
A thick hazel bush close at hand flung a black patch of shadow on the ground. Into this he quickly passed, and there stood for some time without stirring from the spot, inwardly wondering and from time to time shrugging his shoulders. "This has not happened without some purpose," he thought.
Around all was still. From the house not the slightest sound reached him. He began cautiously to advance. At the corner of an alley all the house suddenly burst upon him with its dusky façade. In two windows only on the upper story were lights glimmering. In Liza's apartment a candle was burning behind the white blind, and in Marfa Timofeevna's bed-room glowed the red flame of the small lamp hanging in front of the sacred picture, on the gilded cover of which it was reflected in steady light. Down below, the door leading on to the balcony gaped wide open.
Lavretsky sat down on a wooden bench, rested his head on his hand, and began looking at that door, and at Liza's window. Midnight sounded in the town; in the house a little clock feebly struck twelve. The watchman beat the hour with quick strokes on his board. Lavretsky thought of nothing, expected nothing. It was pleasant to him to feel himself near Liza, to sit in her garden, and on the bench where she also often sat.
The light disappeared from Liza's room.
"A quiet night to you, dear girl," whispered Lavretsky, still sitting where he was without moving, and not taking his eyes off the darkened window.
Suddenly a light appeared at one of the windows of the lower story, crossed to another window, and then to a third. Some one was carrying a candle through the room. "Can it be Liza? It cannot be," thought Lavretsky. He rose. A well-known face glimmered in the darkness, and Liza appeared in the drawing-room, wearing a white dress, her hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. Quietly approaching the table, she leant over it, put down the candle and began looking for something. Then she turned towards the garden, and crossed to the open door; presently her light, slender, white-robed form stood still on the threshold.
A kind of shiver ran over Lavretsky's limbs, and the word "Liza!" escaped all but inaudibly from his lips.
She started, and then began to peer anxiously into the darkness.
"Liza!" said Lavretsky louder than before, and came out from the shadow of the alley.
Liza was startled. For a moment she bent forward; then she shrank back. She had recognized him. For the third time he called her, and held out his hands towards her. She passed out from the doorway and came into the garden.
"You!" she said. "You here!"
"I—I—Come and hear what I have to say," whispered Lavretsky; and then, taking her hand, he led her to the bench.
She followed him without a word; but her pale face, her fixed look, and all her movements, testified her unutterable astonishment. Lavretsky made her sit down on the bench, and remained standing in front of her.
"I did not think of coming here," he began. "I was led here—I—I—I love you," he ended by saying, feeling very nervous in spite of himself.
Liza slowly looked up at him. It seemed as if it had not been till that moment that she understood where she was, and what was happening to her. She would have risen, but she could not. Then she hid her face in her hands.
"Liza!" exclaimed Lavretsky; "Liza!" he repeated, and knelt down at her feet.
A slight shudder ran over her shoulders; she pressed the fingers of her white hands closer to her face.
"What is it?" said Lavretsky. Then he heard a low sound of sobbing, and his heart sank within him. He understood the meaning of those tears.
"Can it be that you love me?" he whispered, with a caressing gesture of the hand.
"Stand up, stand up, Fedor Ivanovich," she at last succeeded in saying. "What are we doing?"
He rose from his knees, and sat down by her side on the bench. She was no longer crying, but her eyes, as she looked at him earnestly, were wet with tears.
"I am frightened! What are we doing?" she said again.
"I love you," he repeated. "I am ready to give my whole life for you."
She shuddered again, just as if something had stung her, then she raised her eyes to heaven.
"That is entirely in the hands of God," she replied.
"But you love me, Liza? We are going to be happy?"
She let fall her eyes. He softly drew her to himself, and her head sank upon his shoulder. He bent his head a little aside, and kissed her pale lips.
* * * * *
Half an hour later Lavretsky was again standing before the garden gate. He found it closed now and was obliged to get over the fence. He returned into the town, and walked along its sleeping streets. His heart was full of happiness, intense and unexpected; all misgiving was dead within him. "Disappear, dark spirit of the Past!" he said to himself. "She loves me. She will be mine."
Suddenly he seemed to hear strange triumphal sounds floating in the air above his head. He stopped. With greater grandeur than before the sounds went clanging forth. With strong, sonorous stream did they flow along—and in them, as it seemed to him, all his happiness spoke and sang. He looked round. The sounds came from the two upper windows of a small house.
"Lemm!" he exclaimed, and ran up to the door of the house. "Lemm,Lemm!" he repeated loudly.
The sounds died away, and the form of the old man, wrapped in a dressing-gown, with exposed chest and wildly floating hair, appeared at the window.
"Ha! it is you," he said, with an air of importance.
"Christopher Fedorovich, what wonderful music! For heaven's sake let me in!"
The old man did not say a word, but with a dignified motion of the hand he threw the key of the door out of the window into the street. Lavretsky hastily ran up-stairs, entered the room, and was going to fling himself into Lemm's arms. But Lemm, with a gesture of command, pointed to a chair, and said sharply in his incorrect Russian, "Sit down and listen," then took his seat at the piano, looked round with a proud and severe glance, and began to play.
Lavretsky had heard nothing like it for a long time indeed. A sweet, passionate melody spoke to the heart with its very first notes. It seemed all thoroughly replete with sparkling light, fraught with inspiration, with beauty, and with joy. As it rose and sank it seemed to speak of all that is dear, and secret, and holy, on earth. It spoke too of a sorrow that can never end, and then it went to die away in the distant heaven.
Lavretsky had risen from his seat and remained standing, rooted to the spot, and pale with rapture. Those sounds entered very readily into his heart; for it had just been stirred into sensitiveness by the touch of a happy love, and they themselves were glowing with love.
"Play it again," he whispered, as soon as the last final chord had died away.
The old man looked at him with an eagle's glance, and said slowly, in his native tongue, striking his breast with his hand, "It is I who wrote that, for I am a great musician," and then he played once more his wonderful composition.
There were no lights in the room, but the rays of the rising moon entered obliquely through the window. The listening air seemed to tremble into music, and the poor little apartment looked like a sanctuary, while the silvery half-light gave to the head of the old man a noble and spiritual expression.
Lavretsky came up to him and embraced him. At first Lemm did not respond to his embrace—even put him aside with his elbow. Then he remained rigid for some time, without moving any of his limbs, wearing the same severe, almost repellent, look as before, and only growling out twice, "Aha!" But at last a change came over him, his face grew calm, and his head was no longer thrown back. Then, in reply to Lavretsky's warm congratulations, he first smiled a little, and afterwards began to cry, sobbing faintly, like a child.
"It is wonderful," he said, "your coming just at this very moment. ButI know every thing—I know all about it."
"You know every thing?" exclaimed Lavretsky in astonishment.
"You have heard what I said," replied Lemm. "Didn't you understand that I knew every thing?"
* * * * *
Lavretsky did not get to sleep till the morning. All night long he remained sitting on the bed. Neither did Liza sleep. She was praying.
The reader knows how Lavretsky had been brought up and educated. We will now say a few words about Liza's education. She was ten years old when her father died, who had troubled himself but little about her. Overwhelmed with business, constantly absorbed in the pursuit of adding to his income, a man of bilious temperament and a sour and impatient nature, he never grudged paying for the teachers and tutors, or for the dress and the other necessaries required by his children, but he could not bear "to nurse his squallers," according to his own expression—and, indeed, he never had any time for nursing them. He used to work, become absorbed in business, sleep a little, play cards on rare occasions, then work again. He often compared himself to a horse yoked to a threshing machine. "My life has soon been spent," he said on his death-bed, a bitter smile contracting his lips.
As to Maria Dmitrievna, she really troubled herself about Liza very little more than her husband did, for all that she had taken credit to herself, when speaking to Lavretsky, for having educated her children herself. She used to dress her like a doll, and when visitors were present, she would caress her and call her a good child and her darling, and that was all. Every continuous care troubled that indolent lady.
During her father's lifetime, Liza was left in the hands of a governess, a Mademoiselle Moreau, from Paris; but after his death she passed under the care of Marfa Timofeevna. That lady is already known to the reader. As for Mademoiselle Moreau, she was a very small woman, much wrinkled, and having the manners of a bird, and the character of a bird also. In her youth she had led a very dissipated life; in her old age she retained only two passions—the love of dainties and the love of cards. When her appetite was satiated, and when she was not playing cards or talking nonsense, her countenance rapidly assumed an almost death-like expression. She would sit and gaze and breathe, but it was plain that there was not a single idea stirring in her mind. She could not even be called good; goodness is not an attribute of birds. In consequence either of her frivolous youth or of the air of Paris, which she had breathed from her childhood's days, there was rooted in her a kind of universal scepticism, which usually found expression in the words, "Tout ça c'est des bêtises." She spoke an incorrect, but purely Parisian jargon, did not talk scandal, and had no caprices—what more could one expect from a governess? Over Liza she had but little influence. All the more powerful, then, was the influence exercised over the child by her nurse, Agafia Vlasievna.
That woman's story was a remarkable one. She sprang from a family of peasants, and was married at sixteen to a peasant; but she stood out in sharp relief against the mass of her peasant sisters. As a child, she had been spoilt by her father, who had been for twenty years the head of his commune, and who had made a good deal of money. She was singularly beautiful, and for grace and taste she was unsurpassed in the whole district, and she was intelligent, eloquent, and courageous. Her master, Dmitry Pestof, Madame Kalitine's father, a quiet and reserved man, saw her one day on the threshing-floor, had a talk with her, and fell passionately in love with her. Soon after this she became a widow. Pestof, although he was a married man, took her into his house, and had her dressed like one of the household. Agafia immediately made herself at home in her new position, just as if she had never led a different kind of life. Her complexion grew fairer, her figure became more rounded, and her arms, under their muslin sleeves, showed "white as wheat-flour," like those of a wealthy tradesman's wife. Thesamovarnever quitted her table; she would wear nothing but silks and velvets; she slept on feather-beds of down.
This happy life lasted five years; then Dmitry Pestof died. His widow, a lady of a kindly character, respected the memory of her late husband too much to wish to treat her rival with ignominy, especially as Agafia had never forgotten herself in her presence; but she married her to a herdsman, and sent her away from her sight. Three years passed by. One hot summer day the lady happened to pay a visit to the cattle-yard. Agafia treated her to such a cool dish of rich cream, behaved herself so modestly, and looked so clean, so happy, so contented with every thing, that her mistress informed her that she was pardoned, and allowed her to return into the house. Before six months had passed, the lady had become, so attached to her that she promoted her to the post of housekeeper, and confided all the domestic arrangements to her care. Thus Agafia came back into power, and again became fair and plump. Her mistress trusted her implicitly.
So passed five more years. Then misfortune came a second time on Agafia. Her husband, for whom she had obtained a place as footman, took to drink, began to absent himself from the house, and ended by stealing half-a-dozen of his mistress's silver spoons and hiding them, till a fitting opportunity should arise for carrying them off in his wife's box. The theft was found out. He was turned into a herdsman again, and Agafia fell into disgrace. She was not dismissed from the house, but she was degraded from the position of housekeeper to that of a needle-woman, and she was ordered to wear a handkerchief on her head instead of a cap. To every one's astonishment, Agafia bore the punishment inflicted on her with calm humility. By this time she was about thirty years old, all her children were dead, and her husband soon afterwards died also. The season of reflection had arrived for her, and she did reflect. She became very silent and very devout, never once letting matins or mass go unheeded by, and she gave away all her fine clothes. For fifteen years she led a quiet, grave, peaceful life, quarrelling with no one, giving way to all. If any one spoke to her harshly, she only bent her head and returned thanks for the lesson. Her mistress had forgiven her long ago, and had taken the ban off her—had even given her a cap off her own head to wear. But she herself refused to doff her handkerchief, and she would never consent to wear any but a sombre-colored dress. After the death of her mistress she became even more quiet and more humble than before. It is easy to work upon a Russian's fears and to secure his attachment, but it is difficult to acquire his esteem; that he will not readily give, nor will he give it to every one. But the whole household esteemed Agafia. No one even so much as remembered her former faults; it was as if they had been buried in the grave with her old master.
When Kalitine married Maria Dmitrievna, he wanted to entrust the care of his household to Agafia; but she refused, "on account of temptation." He began to scold her, but she only bowed low and left the room. The shrewd Kalitine generally understood people; so he understood Agafia's character, and did not lose sight of her. When he settled in town, he appointed her, with her consent, to the post of nurse to Liza, who was then just beginning her fifth year.
At first Liza was frightened by the serious, even severe, face of her new nurse; but she soon became accustomed to her, and learned to love her warmly. The child was of a serious disposition herself. Her features called to mind Kalitine's regular and finely-moulded face, but her eyes were not like those of her father; they shone with a quiet light, expressive of an earnest goodness that is rarely seen in children. She did not care about playing with dolls; she never laughed loudly nor long, and a feeling of self-respect always manifested itself in her conduct. It was not often that she fell into a reverie, but when she did so there was almost always good reason for it; then she would keep silence for a time, but generally ended by addressing to some person older than herself a question which showed that her mind had been working under the influence of a new impression. She very soon got over her childish lisp, and even before she was four years old she spoke with perfect distinctness. She was afraid of her father. As for her mother, she regarded her with a feeling which she could scarcely define, not being afraid of her, but not behaving towards her caressingly. As for that, she did not caress even her nurse, although she loved her with her whole heart. She and Agafia were never apart. It was curious to see them together. Agafia, all in black, with a dark handkerchief on her head, her face emaciated and of a wax-like transparency, but still beautiful and expressive, would sit erect on her chair, knitting stockings. At her feet Liza would be sitting on a little stool, also engaged in some work, or, her clear eyes uplifted with a serious expression, listening to what Agafia was telling her. Agafia never told her nursery tales. With a calm and even voice, she used to tell her about the life of the Blessed Virgin, or the lives of the hermits and people pleasing to God, or about the holy female martyrs. She would tell Liza how the saints lived in the deserts; how they worked out their salvation, enduring hunger and thirst; and how they did not fear kings, but confessed Christ; and how the birds of the air brought them food, and the wild beasts obeyed them; how from those spots where their blood had fallen flowers sprang up. ("Were they carnations?" once asked Liza, who was very fond of flowers.) Agafia spoke about these things to Liza seriously and humbly, as if she felt that it was not for her to pronounce such grand and holy words; and as Liza listened to her, the image of the Omnipresent, Omniscient God entered with a sweet influence into her very soul, filling her with a pure and reverend dread, and Christ seemed to her to be close to her, and to be a friend, almost, as it were, a relation. It was Agafia, also, who taught her to pray. Sometimes she awoke Liza at the early dawn, dressed her hastily, and secretly conveyed her to matins. Liza would follow her on tiptoe, scarcely venturing to breathe. The cold, dim morning light, the raw air pervading the almost empty church, the very secrecy of those unexpected excursions, the cautious return home to bed—all that combination of the forbidden, the strange, the holy, thrilled the young girl, penetrated to the inmost depths of her being.
Agafia never blamed any one, and she never scolded Liza for any childish faults. When she was dissatisfied about anything, she merely kept silence, and Liza always understood that silence. With a child's quick instinct, she also knew well when Agafia was dissatisfied with others, whether it were with Maria Dmitrievna or with Kalitine himself.
For rather more than three years Agafia waited upon Liza. She was replaced by Mademoiselle Moreau; but the frivolous Frenchwoman, with her dry manner and her constant exclamation,Tout ça c'est des bêtises! could not expel from Liza's heart the recollection of her much-loved nurse. The seeds that had been sown had pushed their roots too far for that. After that Agafia, although she had ceased to attend Liza, remained for some time longer in the house, and often saw her pupil, and treated her as she had been used to do.
But when Marfa Timofeevna entered the Kalitines' house, Agafia did not get on well with her. The austere earnestness of the former "wearer of the coarse petticoat." [Footnote: ThePanovnitsa, or wearer of thePanovna, a sort of petticoat made of a coarse stuff of motley hue.] did not please the impatient and self-willed old lady. Agafia obtained leave to go on a pilgrimage, and she never came back. Vague rumors asserted that she had retired into a schismatic convent. But the impression left by her on Liza's heart did not disappear. Just as before, the girl went to mass, as if she were going to a festival; and when in church prayed with enthusiasm, with a kind of restrained and timid rapture, at which her mother secretly wondered not a little. Even Marfa Timofeevna, although she never put any constraint upon Liza, tried to induce her to moderate her zeal, and would not let her make so many prostrations. It was not a lady-like habit, she said.
Liza was a good scholar, that is, a persevering one; she was not gifted with a profound intellect, or with extraordinarily brilliant faculties, and nothing yielded to her without demanding from her no little exertion. She was a good pianiste, but no one else, except Lemm, knew how much that accomplishment had cost her. She did not read much, and she had no "words of her own;" but she had ideas of her own, and she went her own way. In this matter, as well as in personal appearance, she may have taken after her father, for he never used to ask any one's advice as to what he should do.
And so she grew up, and So did her life pass, gently and tranquilly, until she had attained her nineteenth year. She was very charming, but she was not conscious of the fact. In all her movements, a natural, somewhat unconventional, grace, revealed itself; in her voice there sounded the silver notes of early youth. The slightest pleasurable sensation would bring a fascinating smile to her lips, and add a deeper light, a kind of secret tenderness, to her already lustrous eyes. Kind and soft-hearted, thoroughly penetrated by a feeling of duty, and a fear of injuring any one in any way, she was attached to all whom she knew, but to no one person in particular. To God alone did she consecrate her love—loving Him with a timid, tender enthusiasm. Until Lavretsky came, no one had troubled the calmness of her inner life.
Such was Liza.
About the middle of the next day Lavretsky went to the Kalitines'. On his way there he met Panshine, who galloped past on horseback, his hat pulled low over his eyes. At the Kalitines', Lavretsky was not admitted, for the first time since he had made acquaintance with the family. Maria Dmitrievna was asleep, the footman declared; her head ached, Marfa Timofeevna and Lizaveta Mikhailovna were not at home.
Lavretsky walked round the outside of the garden in the vague hope of meeting Liza, but he saw no one. Two hours later he returned to the house, but received the same answer as before; moreover, the footman looked at him in a somewhat marked manner. Lavretsky thought it would be unbecoming to call three times in one day, so he determined to drive out to Vasilievskoe, where, moreover, he had business to transact.
On his way there he framed various plans, each one more charming than the rest. But on his arrival at his aunt's estate, sadness took hold of him. He entered into conversation with Anton; but the old man, as if purposely, would dwell on none but gloomy ideas. He told Lavretsky how Glafira Petrovna, just before her death, had bitten her own hand. And then, after an interval of silence, he added with a sigh, "Every man,barin batyushka,[A] is destined to devour himself."
[Footnote A: Seigneur, father.]
It was late in the day before Lavretsky set out on his return. The music he had heard the night before came back into his mind, and the image of Liza dawned on his heart in all its sweet serenity. He was touched by the thought that she loved him; and he arrived at his little house in the town, tranquillized and happy.
The first thing that struck him when he entered the vestibule, was a smell of patchouli, a perfume he disliked exceedingly. He observed that a number of large trunks and boxes were standing there, and he thought there was a strange expression on the face of the servant who hastily came to meet him. He did not stop to analyze his impressions, but went straight into the drawing-room.
A lady, who wore a black silk dress with flounces, and whose pale face was half hidden by a cambric handkerchief, rose from the sofa, took a few steps to meet him, bent her carefully-arranged and perfumed locks—and fell at his feet. Then for the first time, he recognized her. That lady was his wife!
His breathing stopped. He leaned against the wall.
"Do not drive me from you, Theodore!" she said in French; and her voice cut him to the heart like a knife. He looked at her without comprehending what he saw, and yet, at the same time, he involuntarily remarked that she had grown paler and stouter.
"Theodore!" she continued, lifting her eyes from time to time towards heaven, her exceedingly pretty fingers, tipped with polished nails of rosy hue, writhing the while in preconcerted agonies—"Theodore, I am guilty before you—deeply guilty. I will say more—I am a criminal; but hear what I have to say. I am tortured by remorse; I have become a burden to myself; I can bear my position no longer. Ever so many times I have thought of addressing you, but I was afraid of your anger. But I have determined to break every tie with the past—puis, j'ai été si malade. I was so ill," she added, passing her hand across her brow and cheek, "I took advantage of the report which was spread abroad of my death, and I left everything. Without stopping anywhere, I travelled day and night to come here quickly. For a long time I was in doubt whether to appear before you, my judge—paraitre devant vous man juge; but at last I determined to go to you, remembering your constant goodness. I found out your address in Moscow. Believe me," she continued, quietly rising from the ground and seating herself upon the very edge of an arm-chair, "I often thought of death, and I could have found sufficient courage in my heart to deprive myself of life—ah! life is an intolerable burden to me now—but the thought of my child, my little Ada, prevented me. She is here now; she is asleep in the next room, poor child. She is tired out You will see her, won't you? She, at all events, is innocent before you; and so unfortunate—so unfortunate!" exclaimed Madame Lavretsky, and melted into tears.
Lavretsky regained his consciousness at last. He stood away from the wall, and turned towards the door.
"You are going away?" exclaimed his wife, in accents of despair. "Oh, that is cruel! without saying a single word to me—not even one of reproach! This contempt kills me; it is dreadful!"
Lavretsky stopped.
"What do you want me to say to you?" he said in a hollow tone.
"Nothing—nothing!" she cried with animation. "I know that I have no right to demand anything. I am no fool, believe me. I don't hope, I don't dare to hope, for pardon. I only venture to entreat you to tell me what I ought to do, where I ought to live. I will obey your orders like a slave, whatever they may be."
"I have no orders to give," replied Lavretsky in the same tone as before. "You know that all is over between us—and more than ever now. You can live where you like; and if your allowance is too small—"
"Ah, don't say such terrible things!" she said, interrupting him."Forgive me, if only—if only for the sake of this angel."
And having uttered these words, Varvara Pavlovna suddenly rushed into the other room, and immediately returned with a very tastefully-dressed little girl in her arms. Thick flaxen curls fell about the pretty little rosy face and over the great black, sleepy eyes of the child, who smilingly blinked at the light, and held on to her mother's neck by a chubby little arm.
"Ada, vois, c'est ton père," said Varvara Pavlovna, removing the curls from the child's eyes, and kissing her demonstratively. "Prie-le avec moi."
"C'est là, papa?" the little girl lispingly began to stammer.
"Oui, mon enfant, n'est-ce pas que tu l'aimes?"
But the interview had become intolerable to Lavretsky. ;'
"What melodrama is it just such a scene occurs; in?" he muttered, and left the room.
Varvara Pavlovna remained standing where she was for some time, then she slightly shrugged her shoulders, took the little girl back into the other room, undressed her, and put her to bed. Then she took a book and sat down near the lamp. There she waited about an hour, but at last she went to bed herself.
"Eh bien, madame?" asked her maid,—a Frenchwoman whom she had brought with her from Paris,—as she unlaced her stays.
"Eh bien, Justine!" replied Varvara Pavlovna. "He has aged a great deal, but I think he is just as good as ever. Give me my gloves for the night, and get the gray dress, the high one, ready for to-morrow morning—and don't forget the mutton cutlets for Ada. To be sure it will be difficult to get them here, but we must try."
"A la guerre comme à la guerre!" replied Justine as she put out the light.
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 afeuilleton, 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 atisane."
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 histisane.
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. Thefeuilletonhad 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 visiblebottine, all was so artistic!
Lavretsky eyed her with a look of hate, feeling hardly able to abstain from cryingbrava, 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.
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 mère vous appelle: Adieu à 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.
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 VarvaraPavlovna, with a swift and almost noiseless step, came up to MariaDmitrievna, 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 étonnant."
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 êtes 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 délicieuse!"
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 byhim." 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 wonderfulvirtuosa."
"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"