"I did not want to go along the beaten track," he said huskily. "I wanted to choose a wife according to the dictates of my heart; but it seems this was not to be. Farewell, fond dream!" He made Lisa a profound bow, and went back into the house.

She hoped that he would go away at once; but he went into Marya Dmitrievna's room and remained nearly an hour with her. As he came out, he said to Lisa: "Votre mere vous appelle; adieu a jamais,"... mounted his horse, and set off at full trot from the very steps. Lisa went in to Marya Dmitrievna and found her in tears; Panshin had informed her of his ill-luck.

"Do you want to be the death of me? Do you want to be the death of me?" was how the disconsolate widow began her lamentations. "Whom do you want? Wasn't he good enough for you? A kammer-junker! not interesting! He might have married any Maid of Honour he liked in Petersburg. And I—I had so hoped for it! Is it long that you have changed towards him? How has this misfortune come on us,—it cannot have come of itself! Is it that dolt of a cousin's doing? A nice person you have picked up to advise you!"

"And he, poor darling," Marya Dmitrievna went on, "how respectful he is, how attentive even in his sorrow! He has promised not to desert me. Ah, I can never bear that! Ah, my head aches fit to split! Send me Palashka. You will be the death of me, if you don't think better of it,—do you hear?"

And, calling her twice an ungrateful girl, Marya Dmitrievna dismissed her.

She went to her own room. But she had not had time to recover from her interviews with Panshin and her mother before another storm broke over head, and this time from a quarter from which she would least have expected it. Marfa Timofyevna came into her room, and at once slammed the door after her. The old lady's face was pale, her cap was awry, her eyes were flashing, and her hands and lips were trembling. Lisa was astonished; she had never before seen her sensible and reasonable aunt in such a condition.

"A pretty thing, miss," Marfa Timofyevna began in a shaking and broken whisper, "a pretty thing! Who taught you such ways, I should like to know, miss?... Give me some water; I can't speak."

"Calm yourself, auntie, what is the matter?" said Lisa, giving her a glass of water. "Why, I thought you did not think much of Mr. Panshin yourself."

Marfa Timofyevna pushed away the glass.

"I can't drink; I shall knock my last teeth out if I try to. What's Panshin to do with it? Why bring Panshin in? You had better tell me who has taught you to make appointments at night—eh? miss?"

Lisa turned pale.

"Now, please, don't try to deny it," pursued Marfa Timofyevna; "Shurotchka herself saw it all and told me. I have had to forbid her chattering, but she is not a liar."

"I don't deny it, auntie," Lisa uttered scarcely audibly.

"Ah, ah! That's it, is it, miss; you made an appointment with him, that old sinner, who seems so meek?"

"No."

"How then?"

"I went down into the drawing-room for a book; he was in the garden—and he called me."

"And you went? A pretty thing! So you love him, eh?"

"I love him," answered Lisa softly.

"Merciful Heavens! She loves him!" Marfa Timofyevna snatched off her cap. "She loves a married man! Ah! she loves him."

"He told me"...began Lisa.

"What has he told you, the scoundrel, eh?"

"He told me that his wife was dead."

Marfa Timofyevna crossed herself. "Peace be with her," she muttered; "she was a vain hussy, God forgive her. So, then, he's a widower, I suppose. And he's losing no time, I see. He has buried one wife and now he's after another. He's a nice person: only let me tell you one thing, niece; in my day, when I was young, harm came to young girls from such goings on. Don't be angry with me, my girl, only fools are angry at the truth. I have given orders not to admit him to-day. I love him, but I shall never forgive him for this. Upon my word, a widower! Give me some water. But as for your sending Panshin about his business, I think you're a first-rate girl for that. Only don't you go sitting of nights with any animals of that sort; don't break my old heart, or else you'll see I'm not all fondness—I can bite too... a widower!"

Marfa Timofyevna went off, and Lisa sat down in a corner and began to cry. There was bitterness in her soul. She had not deserved such humiliation. Love had proved no happiness to her: she was weeping for a second time since yesterday evening. This new unexpected feeling had only just arisen in her heart, and already what a heavy price she had paid for it, how coarsely had strange hands touched her sacred secret. She felt ashamed, and bitter, and sick; but she had no doubt and no dread—and Lavretsky was dearer to her than ever. She had hesitated while she did not understand herself; but after that meeting, after that kiss—she could hesitate no more: she knew that she loved, and now she loved honestly and seriously, she was bound firmly for all her life, and she did not fear reproaches. She felt that by no violence could they break that bond.



Chapter XXXIX

Marya Dmitrievna was much agitated when she received the announcement of the arrival of Varvara Pavlovna Lavretsky, she did not even know whether to receive her; she was afraid of giving offence to Fedor Ivanitch. At last curiosity prevailed. "Why," she reflected, "she too is a relation," and, taking up her position in an arm-chair, she said to the footman, "Show her in." A few moments passed; the door opened, Varvara Pavlovna swiftly and with scarcely audible steps, approached Marya Dmitrievna, and not allowing her to rise from her chair, bent almost on her knees before her.

"I thank you, dear aunt," she began in a soft voice full of emotion, speaking Russian; "I thank you; I did not hope for such condescension on your part; you are an angel of goodness."

As she uttered these words Varvara Pavlovna quite unexpectedly took possession of one of Marya Dmitrievna's hands, and pressing it lightly in her pale lavender gloves, she raised it in a fawning way to her full rosy lips. Marya Dmitrievna quite lost her head, seeing such a handsome and charmingly dressed woman almost at her feet. She did not know where she was. And she tried to withdraw her hand, while, at the same time, she was inclined to make her sit down, and to say something affectionate to her. She ended by raising Varvara Pavlovna and kissing her on her smooth perfumed brow.

Varvara Pavlovna was completely overcome by this kiss.

"How do you do, bonjour," said Marya Dmitrievna. "Of course I did not expect... but, of course, I am glad to see you. You understand, my dear, it's not for me to judge between man and wife"...

"My husband is in the right in everything," Varvara Pavlovna interposed; "I alone am to blame."

"That is a very praiseworthy feeling" rejoined Marya Dmitrievna, "very. Have you been here long? Have you seen him? But sit down, please."

"I arrived yesterday," answered Varvara Pavlovna, sitting down meekly. "I have seen Fedor Ivanitch; I have talked with him."

"Ah! Well, and how was he?"

"I was afraid my sudden arrival would provoke his anger," continued Varvara Pavlovna, "but he did not refuse to see me."

"That is to say, he did not... Yes, yes, I understand," commented Marya Dmitrievna. "He is only a little rough on the surface, but his heart is soft."

"Fedor Ivanitch has not forgiven me; he would not hear me. But he was so good as to assign me Lavriky as a place of residence."

"Ah! a splendid estate!"

"I am setting off there to-morrow in fulfilment of his wish; but I esteemed it a duty to visit you first."

"I am very, very much obliged to you, my dear. Relations ought never to forget one another. And do you know I am surprised how well you speak Russian. C'est etonnant."

Varvara Pavlovna sighed.

"I have been too long abroad, Marya Dmitrievna, I know that; but my heart has always been Russian, and I have not forgotten my country."

"Ah, ah; that is good. Fedor Ivanitch did not, however, expect you at all. Yes; you may trust my experience, la patri avant tout. Ah, show me, if you please-what a charming mantle you have."

"Do you like it?" Varvara Pavlovna slipped it quickly off her shoulders; "it is a very simple little thing from Madame Baudran."

"One can see it at once. From Madame Baudran? How sweet, and what taste! I am sure you have brought a number of fascinating things with you. If I could only see them."

"All my things are at your service, dearest auntie. If you permit, I can show some patterns to your maid. I have a woman with me from Paris—a wonderfully clever dressmaker."

"You are very good, my dear. But, really, I am ashamed"...

"Ashamed!" repeated Varvara Pavlovna reproachfully. "If you want to make me happy, dispose of me as if I were your property."

Marya Dmitrievna was completely melted.

"Vous etes charmante," she said. "But why don't you take off your hat and gloves?"

"What? you will allow me?" asked Varvara Pavlovna, and slightly, as though with emotion, clasped her hands.

"Of course, you will dine with us, I hope. I—I will introduce you to my daughter." Marya Dmitrievna was a little confused. "Well! we are in for it! here goes!" she thought. "She is not very well to-day."

"O ma tante, how good you are!" cried Varvara Pavlovna, and she raised her handkerchief to her eyes.

A page announced the arrival of Gedeonovsky. The old gossip came in bowing and smiling. Marya Dmitrievna presented him to her visitor. He was thrown into confusion for the first moment; but Varvara Pavlovna behaved with such coquettish respectfulness to him, that his ears began to tingle, and gossip, slander, and civility dropped like honey from his lips. Varvara Pavlovna listened to him with a restrained smile and began by degrees to talk herself. She spoke modestly of Paris, of her travels, of Baden; twice she made Marya Dmitrievna laugh, and each time she sighed a little afterwards, and seemed to be inwardly reproaching herself for misplaced levity. She obtained permission to bring Ada; taking off her gloves, with her smooth hands, redolent of soap a la guimauve, she showed how and where flounces were worn and ruches and lace and rosettes. She promised to bring a bottle of the new English scent, Victoria Essence; and was as happy as a child when Marya Dmitrievna consented to accept it as a gift. She was moved to tears over the recollection of the emotion she experienced, when, for the first time, she heard the Russian bells. "They went so deeply to my heart," she explained.

At that instant Lisa came in.

Ever since the morning, from the very instant when, chill with horror, she had read Lavretsky's note, Lisa had been preparing herself for the meeting with his wife. She had a presentiment that she would see her. She resolved not to avoid her, as a punishment of her, as she called them, sinful hopes. The sudden crisis in her destiny had shaken her to the foundations. In some two hours her face seemed to have grown thin. But she did not shed a single tear. "It's what I deserve!" she said to herself, repressing with difficulty and dismay some bitter impulses of hatred which frightened her in her soul. "Well, I must go down!" she thought directly she heard of Madame Lavretsky's arrival, and she went down.... She stood a long while at the drawing-room door before she could summon up courage to open it. With the thought, "I have done her wrong," she crossed the threshold and forced herself to look at her, forced herself to smile. Varvara Pavlovna went to meet her directly she caught sight of her, and bowed to her slightly, but still respectfully. "Allow me to introduce myself," she began in an insinuating voice, "your maman is so indulgent to me that I hope that you too will be... good to me." The expression of Varvara Pavlovna, when she uttered these last words, cold and at the same time soft, her hypocritical smile, the action of her hands, and her shoulders, her very dress, her whole being aroused such a feeling of repulsion in Lisa that she could make no reply to her, and only held out her hand with an effort. "This young lady disdains me," thought Varvara Pavlovna, warmly pressing Lisa's cold fingers, and turning to Marya Dmitrievna, she observed in an undertone, "mais elle est delicieuse!" Lisa faintly flushed; she heard ridicule, insult in this exclamation. But she resolved not to trust her impressions, and sat down by the window at her embroidery-frame. Even here Varvara Pavlovna did not leave her in peace. She began to admire her taste, her skill.... Lisa's heart beat violently and painfully. She could scarcely control herself, she could scarcely sit in her place. It seemed to her that Varvara Pavlovna knew all, and was mocking at her in secret triumph. To her relief, Gedeonovsky began to talk to Varvara Pavlovna, and drew off her attention. Lisa bent over her frame, and secretly watched her. "That woman," she thought, "was loved by him." But she at once drove away the very thought of Lavretsky; she was afraid of losing her control over herself, she felt that her head was going round. Marya Dmitrievna began to talk of music.

"I have heard, my dear," she began, "that you are a wonderful performer."

"It is long since I have played," replied Varvara Pavlovna, seating herself without delay at the piano, and running her fingers smartly over the keys. "Do you wish it?"

"If you will be so kind."

Varvara Pavlovna played a brilliant and difficult etude by Hertz very correctly. She had great power and execution.

"Sylphide!" cried Gedeonovsky.

"Marvellous!" Marya Dmitrievna chimed in. "Well, Varvara Pavlovna, I confess," she observed, for the first time calling her by her name, "you have astonished me; you might give concerts. We have a musician here, an old German, a queer fellow, but a very clever musician. He gives Lisa lessons. He will be simply crazy over you."

"Lisaveta Mihalovna is also musical?" asked Varvara Pavlovna, turning her head slightly towards her.

"Yes, she plays fairly, and is fond of music; but what is that beside you? But there is one young man here too—with whom we must make you acquainted. He is an artist in soul, and composes very charmingly. He alone will be able to appreciate you fully."

"A young man?" said Varvara Pavlovna: "Who is he? Some poor man?"

"Oh dear no, our chief beau, and not only among us—et a Petersbourg. A kammer-junker, and received in the best society. You must have heard of him: Panshin, Vladimir Nikolaitch. He is here on a government commission ... future minister, I daresay!"

"And an artist?"

"An artist at heart, and so well-bred. You shall see him. He has been here very often of late: I invited him for this evening; I hope he will come," added Marya Dmitrievna with a gentle sigh, and an oblique smile of bitterness.

Lisa knew the meaning of this smile, but it was nothing to her now.

"And young?" repeated Varvara Pavlovna, lightly modulating from tone to tone.

"Twenty-eight, and of the most prepossessing appearance. Un jeune homme acompli, indeed."

"An exemplary young man, one may say," observed Gedeonovsky.

Varvara Pavlovna began suddenly playing a noisy waltz of Strauss, opening with such a loud and rapid trill that Gedeonovsky was quite startled. In the very middle of the waltz she suddenly passed into a pathetic motive, and finished up with an air from "Lucia" Fra poco... She reflected that lively music was not in keeping with her position. The air from "Lucia," with emphasis on the sentimental passages, moved Marya Dmitrievna greatly.

"What soul!" she observed in an undertone to Gedeonovsky.

"A sylphide!" repeated Gedeonovsky, raising his eyes towards heaven.

The dinner hour arrived. Marfa Timofyevna came down from up-stairs, when the soup was already on the table. She treated Varvara Pavlovna very drily, replied in half-sentences to her civilities, and did not look at her. Varvara Pavlovna soon realised that there was nothing to be got out of this old lady, and gave up trying to talk to her. To make up for this, Marya Dmitrievna became still more cordial to her guest; her aunt's discourtesy irritated her. Marfa Timofyevna, however, did not only avoid looking at Varvara Pavlovna; she did not look at Lisa either, though her eyes seemed literally blazing. She sat as though she were of stone, yellow and pale, her lips compressed, and ate nothing. Lisa seemed calm; and in reality, her heart was more at rest, a strange apathy, the apathy of the condemned had come upon her. At dinner Varvara Pavlovna spoke little; she seemed to have grown timid again, and her countenance was overspread with an expression of modest melancholy. Gedeonovsky alone enlivened the conversation with his tales, though he constantly looked timorously towards Marfa Timofyevna and coughed—he was always overtaken by a fit of coughing when he was going to tell a lie in her presence—but she did not hinder him by any interruption. After dinner it seemed that Varvara Pavlovna was quite devoted to preference; at this Marya Dmitrievna was so delighted that she felt quite overcome, and thought to herself, "Really, what a fool Fedor Ivanitch must be; not able to appreciate a woman like this!"

She sat down to play cards together with her and Gedeonovsky, and Marfa Timofyevna led Lisa away up-stairs with her, saying that she looked shocking, and that she must certainly have a headache.

"Yes, she has an awful headache," observed Marya Dmitrievna, turning to Varvara Pavlovna and rolling her eyes, "I myself have often just such sick headaches."

"Really!" rejoined Varvara Pavlovna.

Lisa went into her aunt's room, and sank powerless into a chair. Marfa Timofyevna gazed long at her in silence, slowly she knelt down before her—and began still in the same silence to kiss her hands alternately. Lisa bent forward, crimsoning—and began to weep, but she did not make Marfa Timofyevna get up, she did not take away her hands, she felt that she had not the right to take them away, that she had not the right to hinder the old lady from expressing her penitence, and her sympathy, from begging forgiveness for what had passed the day before. And Marfa Timofyevna could not kiss enough those poor, pale, powerless hands, and silent tears flowed from her eyes and from Lisa's; while the cat Matross purred in the wide arm-chair among the knitting wool, and the long flame of the little lamp faintly stirred and flickered before the holy picture. In the next room, behind the door, stood Nastasya Karpovna, and she too was furtively wiping her eyes with her check pocket-handkerchief rolled up in a ball.

Chapter XL

Meanwhile, down-stairs, preference was going on merrily in the drawing-room; Marya Dmitrievna was winning, and was in high good-humour. A servant came in and announced that Panshin was below.

Marya Dmitrievna dropped her cards and moved restlessly in her arm-chair; Varvara Pavlovna looked at her with a half-smile, then turned her eyes towards the door. Panshin made his appearance in a black frock-coat buttoned up to the throat, and a high English collar. "It was hard for me to obey; but you see I have come," this was what was expressed by his unsmiling, freshly shaven countenance.

"Well, Woldemar," cried Marya Dmitrievna, "you used to come in unannounced!"

Panshin only replied to Marya Dmitrievna by a single glance. He bowed courteously to her, but did not kiss her hand. She presented him to Varvara Pavlovna; he stepped back a pace, bowed to her with the same courtesy, but with still greater elegance and respect, and took a seat near the card-table. The game of preference was soon over. Panshin inquired after Lisaveta Mihalovna, learnt that she was not quite well, and expressed his regret. Then he began to talk to Varvara Pavlovna, diplomatically weighing each word and giving it its full value, and politely hearing her answers to the end. But the dignity of his diplomatic tone did not impress Varvara Pavlovna, and she did not adopt it. On the contrary, she looked him in the face with light-hearted attention and talked easily, while her delicate nostrils were quivering as though with suppressed laughter. Marya Dmitrievna began to enlarge on her talent; Panshin courteously inclined his head, so far as his collar would permit him, declared that, "he felt sure of it beforehand," and almost turned the conversation to the diplomatic topic of Metternich himself. Varvara Pavlovna, with an expressive look in her velvety eyes, said in a low voice, "Why, but you too are an artist, un confrere," adding still lower, "venez!" with a nod towards the piano. The single word venez thrown at him, instantly, as though by magic, effected a complete transformation in Panshin's whole appearance. His care-worn air disappeared; he smiled and grew lively, unbuttoned his coat, and repeating "a poor artist, alas! Now you, I have heard, are a real artist; he followed Varvara Pavlovna to the piano....

"Make him sing his song, 'How the Moon Floats,'" cried Marya Dmitrievna.

"Do you sing?" said Varvara Pavlovna, enfolding him in a rapid radiant look. "Sit down."

Panshin began to cry off.

"Sit down," she repeated insistently, tapping on a chair behind him.

He sat down, coughed, tugged at his collar, and sang his song.

"Charmant," pronounced Varvara Pavlovna, "you sing very well, vous avez du style, again."

She walked round the piano and stood just opposite Panshin. He sang it again, increasing the melodramatic tremor in his voice. Varvara Pavlovna stared steadily at him, leaning her elbows on the piano and holding her white hands on a level with her lips. Panshin finished the song.

"Charmant, charmant idee," she said with the calm self-confidence of a connoisseur. "Tell me, have you composed anything for a woman's voice, for a mezzo-soprano?"

"I hardly compose at all," replied Panshin. "That was only thrown off in the intervals of business... but do you sing?"

"Yes."

"Oh! sing us something," urged Marya Dmitrievna.

Varvara Pavlovna pushed her hair back off her glowing cheeks and gave her head a little shake.

"Our voices ought to go well together," she observed, turning to Panshin; "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, once," replied Panshin, "but long ago; I have forgotten it."

"Never mind, we will rehearse it in a low voice. Allow me."

Varvara Pavlovna sat down at the piano, Panshin stood by her. They sang through the duet in an undertone, and Varvara Pavlovna corrected him several times as they did so, then they sang it aloud, and then twice repeated the performance of Mira la bianca lu-u-na. Varvara Pavlovna's voice had lost its freshness, but she managed it with great skill. Panshin at first was hesitating, and a little out of tune, then he warmed up, and if his singing was not quite beyond criticism, at least he shrugged his shoulders, swayed his whole person, and lifted his hand from time to time in the most genuine style. Varvara Pavlovna played two or three little things of Thalberg's, and coquettishly rendered a little French ballad. Marya Dmitrievna did not know how to express her delight; she several times tried to send for Lisa. Gedeonovsky, too, was at a loss for words, and could only nod his head, but all at once he gave an unexpected yawn, and hardly had time to cover his mouth with his! hand. This yawn did not escape Varvara Pavlovna; she at once turned her back on the piano, observing, "Assez de musique comme ca; let us talk," and she folded her arms. "Oui, assez de musique," repeated Panshin gaily, and at once he dropped into a chat, alert, light, and in French. "Precisely as in the best Parisian salon," thought Marya Dmitrievna, as she listened to their fluent and quick-witted sentences. Panshin had a sense of complete satisfaction; his eyes shone, and he smiled. At first he passed his hand across his face, contracted his brows, and sighed spasmodically whenever he chanced to encounter Marya Dmitrievna's eyes. But later on he forgot her altogether, and gave himself up entirely to the enjoyment of a half-worldly, half-artistic chat. Varvara Pavlovna proved to be a great philosopher; she had a ready answer for everything; she never hesitated, never doubted about anything; one could see that she had conversed much with clever men of all kinds. All her ideas, all her feelings revolved round Paris. Panshin turned the conversation upon literature; it seemed that, like himself, she read only French books. George Sand drove her to exasperation, Balzac she respected, but he wearied her; in Sue and Scribe she saw great knowledge of human nature, Dumas and Feval she adored. In her heart she preferred Paul de Kock to all of them, but of course she did not even mention his name. To tell the truth, literature had no great interest for her. Varvara Pavlovna very skilfully avoided all that could even remotely recall her position; there was no reference to love in her remarks; on the contrary, they were rather expressive of austerity in regard to the allurements of passion, of disillusionment and resignation. Panshin disputed with her; she did not agree with him.... but, strange to say!... at the very time when words of censure-often of severe censure—were coming from her lips, these words had a soft caressing sound, and her eyes spoke... precisely what those lovely eyes spoke, it was hard to say; but at least their utterances were anything but severe, and were full of undefined sweetness.

Panshin tried to interpret their secret meaning, he tried to make his own eyes speak, but he felt he was not successful; he was conscious that Varvara Pavlovna, in the character of a real lioness from abroad, stood high above him, and consequently was not completely master of himself. Varvara Pavlovna had a habit in conversation of lightly touching the sleeve of the person she was talking to; those momentary contacts had a most disquieting influence on Vladimir Nikolaitch. Varvara Pavlovna possessed the faculty of getting on easily with every one; before two hours had passed it seemed to Panshin that he had known her for an age, and Lisa, the same Lisa whom, at any-rate, he had loved, to whom he had the evening before offered his hand, had vanished as it were into a mist. Tea was brought in; the conversation became still more unconstrained. Marya Dmitrievna rang for the page and gave orders to ask Lisa to come down if her head were better. Panshin, hearing Lisa's name, fell to discussing self-sacrifice and the question which was more capable of sacrifice—man or woman. Marya Dmitrievna at once became excited, began to maintain that woman is more the ready for sacrifice, declared that she would prove it in a couple of words, got confused and finished up by a rather unfortunate comparison. Varvara Pavlovna took up a music-book and half-hiding behind it and bending towards Panshin, she observed in a whisper, as she nibbled a biscuit, with a serene smile on her lips and in her eyes, "Elle n'a pas invente la poudre, la bonne dame." Panshin was a little taken aback and amazed at Varvara Pavlovna's audacity; but he did not realise how much contempt for himself was concealed in this unexpected outbreak, and forgetting Marya Dmitrievna's kindness and devotion, forgetting all the dinners she had given him, and the money she had lent him, he replied (luckless mortal!) with the same smile and in the same tone, "je crois bien," and not even, je crois bien, but j'crois ben!

Varvara flung him a friendly glance and got up. Lisa came in: Marfa Timofyevna had tried in vain to hinder her; she was resolved to go through with her sufferings to the end. Varvara Pavlovna went to meet her together with Panshin, on whose face the former diplomatic expression had reappeared.

"How are you?" he asked Lisa.

"I am better now, thank you," she replied.

"We have been having a little music here; it's a pity you did not hear Varvara Pavlovna, she sings superbly, en artiste consommee."

"Come here, my dear," sounded Marya Dmitrievna's voice.

Varvara Pavlovna went to her at once with the submissiveness of a child, and sat down on a little stool at her feet. Marya Dmitrievna had called her so as to leave her daughter, at least for a moment, alone with Panshin; she was still secretly hoping that she would come round. Besides, an idea had entered her head, to which she was anxious to give expression at once.

"Do you know," she whispered to Varvara Pavlovna, "I want to endeavour to reconcile you and your husband; I won't answer for my success, but I will make an effort. He has, you know, a great respect for me." Varvara Pavlovna slowly raised her eyes to Marya Dmitrievna, and eloquently clasped her hands.

"You would be my saviour, ma tante," she said in a mournful voice: "I don't know how to thank you for all your kindness; but I have been too guilty towards Fedor Ivanitch; he can not forgive me."

"But did you—in reality—" Marya Dmitrievna was beginning inquisitively.

"Don't question me," Varvara Pavlovna interrupted her, and she cast down her eyes. "I was young, frivolous. But I don't want to justify myself."

"Well, anyway, why not try? Don't despair," rejoined Marya Dmitrievna, and she was on the point of patting her on the cheek, but after a glance at her she had not the courage. "She is humble, very humble," she thought, "but still she is a lioness."

"Are you ill?" Panshin was saying to Lisa meanwhile.

"Yes, I am not well."

"I understand you," he brought out after a rather protracted silence. "Yes, I understand you."

"What?"

"I understand you," Panshin repeated significantly; he simply did not know what to say.

Lisa felt embarrassed, and then "so be it!" she thought. Panshin assumed a mysterious air and kept silent, looking severely away.

"I fancy though it's struck eleven," remarked Marya Dmitrievna.

Her guests took the hint and began to say good-bye. Varvara Pavlovna had to promise that she would come to dinner the following day and bring Ada. Gedeonovsky, who had all but fallen asleep sitting in his corner, offered to escort her home. Panshin took leave solemnly of all, but at the steps as he put Varvara Pavlovna into her carriage he pressed her hand, and cried after her, "au revoir!" Gedeonovsky sat beside her all the way home. She amused herself by pressing the tip of her little foot as though accidentally on his foot; he was thrown into confusion and began paying her compliments. She tittered and made eyes at him when the light of a street lamp fell into the carriage. The waltz she had played was ringing in her head, and exciting her; whatever position she might find herself in, she had only to imagine lights, a ballroom, rapid whirling to the strains of music—and her blood was on fire, her eyes glittered strangely, a smile strayed about her lips, and something of bacchanalian grace was visible over her whole frame. When she reached home Varvara Pavlovna bounded lightly out of the carriage—only real lionesses know how to bound like that—and turning round to Gedeonovsky she burst suddenly into a ringing laugh right in his face.

"An attractive person," thought the counsellor of state as he made his way to his lodgings, where his servant was awaiting him with a glass of opodeldoc: "It's well I'm a steady fellow—only, what was she laughing at?"

Marfa Timofyevna spent the whole night sitting beside Lisa's bed.



Chapter XLI

Lavretsky spent a day and a half at Vassilyevskoe, and employed almost all the time in wandering about the neighbourhood. He could not stop long in one place: he was devoured by anguish; he was torn unceasingly by impotent violent impulses. He remembered the feeling which had taken possession of him the day after his arrival in the country; he remembered his plans then and was intensely exasperated with himself. What had been able to tear him away from what he recognised as his duty—as the one task set before him in the future? The thirst for happiness—again the same thirst for happiness.

"It seems Mihalevitch was right," he thought; "you wanted a second time to taste happiness in life," he said to himself, "you forgot that it is a luxury, an undeserved bliss, if it even comes once to a man. It was not complete, it was not genuine, you say; but prove your right to full, genuine happiness Look round and see who is happy, who enjoys life about you? Look at that peasant going to the mowing; is he contented with his fate?... What! would you care to change places with him? Remember your mother; how infinitely little she asked of life, and what a life fell to her lot. You were only bragging it seems when you said to Panshin that you had come back to Russia to cultivate the soil; you have come back to dangle after young girls in your old age. Directly the news of your freedom came, you threw up everything, forgot everything; you ran like a boy after a butterfly."....

The image of Lisa continually presented itself in the midst of his broodings. He drove it away with an effort together with another importunate figure, other serenely wily, beautiful, hated features. Old Anton noticed that the master was not himself: after sighing several times outside the door and several times in the doorway, he made up his mind to go up to him, and advised him to take a hot drink of something. Lavretsky swore at him; ordered him out; afterwards he begged his pardon, but that only made Anton still more sorrowful. Lavretsky could not stay in the drawing-room; it seemed to him that his great-grandfather Andrey, was looking contemptuously from the canvas at his feeble descendant. "Bah: you swim in shallow water," the distorted lips seemed to be saying. "Is it possible," he thought, "that I cannot master myself, that I am going to give in to this... nonsense?" (Those who are badly wounded in war always call their wounds "nonsense." If man did not deceive himself, he could not live on earth.) "Am I really a boy? Ah, well; I saw quite close, I almost held in my hands the possibility of happiness for my whole life; yes, in the lottery too—turn the wheel a little and the beggar perhaps would be a rich man. If it does not happen, then it does not—and it's all over. I will set to work, with my teeth clenched, and make myself be quiet; it's as well, it's not the first time I have had to hold myself in. And why have I run away, why am I stopping here sticking my head in a bush, like an ostrich? A fearful thing to face trouble... nonsense! Anton," he called aloud, "order the coach to be brought round at once. Yes," he thought again, "I must grin and bear it, I must keep myself well in hand."

With such reasonings Lavretsky tried to ease his pain; but it was deep and intense; and even Apraxya who had outlived all emotion as well as intelligence shook her head and followed him mournfully with her eyes, as he took his seat in the coach to drive to the town. The horses galloped away; he sat upright and motionless, and looked fixedly at the road before him.



Chapter XLII

Lisa had written to Lavretsky the day before, to tell him to come in the evening; but he first went home to his lodgings. He found neither his wife nor his daughter at home; from the servants he learned that she had gone with the child to the Kalitins'. This information astounded and maddened him. "Varvara Pavlovna has made up her mind not to let me live at all, it seems," he thought with a passion of hatred in his heart. He began to walk up and down, and his hands and feet were constantly knocking up against child's toys, books and feminine belongings; he called Justine and told her to clear away all this "litter." "Oui, monsieur," she said with a grimace, and began to set the room in order, stooping gracefully, and letting Lavretsky feel in every movement that she regarded him as an unpolished bear.

He looked with aversion at her faded, but still "piquante," ironical, Parisian face, at her white elbow-sleeves, her silk apron, and little light cap. He sent her away at last, and after long hesitation (as Varvara Pavlovna still did not return) he decided to go to the Kalitins'—not to see Marya Dmitrievna (he would not for anything in the world have gone into that drawing-room, the room where his wife was), but to go up to Marfa Timofyevna's. He remembered that the back staircase from the servants' entrance led straight to her apartment. He acted on this plan; fortune favoured him; he met Shurotchka in the court-yard; she conducted him up to Marfa Timofyevna's. He found her, contrary to her usual habit, alone; she was sitting without a cap in a corner, bent, and her arms crossed over her breast. The old lady was much upset on seeing Lavretsky, she got up quickly and began to move to and fro in the room as if she were looking for her cap.

"Ah, it's you," she began, fidgeting about and avoiding meeting his eyes, "well, how do you do? Well, well, what's to be done! Where were you yesterday? Well, she has come, so there, there! Well, it must... one way or another."

Lavretsky dropped into a chair.

"Well, sit down, sit down," the old lady went on. "Did you come straight up-stairs? Well, there, of course. So... you came to see me? Thanks."

The old lady was silent for a little; Lavretsky did not know what to say to her; but she understood him.

"Lisa... yes, Lisa was here just now," pursued Marfa Timofyevna, tying and untying the tassels of her reticule. "She was not quite well. Shurotchka, where are you? Come here, my girl; why can't you sit still a little? My head aches too. It must be the effect of the singing and music."

"What singing, auntie?"

"Why, we have been having those—upon my word, what do you call them—duets here. And all in Italian: chi-chi—and cha-cha—like magpies for all the world with their long drawn-out notes as if they'd pull your very soul out. That's Panshin, and your wife too. And how quickly everything was settled; just as though it were all among relations, without ceremony. However, one may well say, even a dog will try to find a home; and won't be lost so long as folks don't drive it out."

"Still, I confess I did not expect this," rejoined Lavretsky; "there must be great effrontery to do this."

"No, my darling, it's not effrontery, it's calculation, God forgive her! They say you are sending her off to Lavriky; is it true?"

"Yes, I am giving up that property to Varvara Pavlovna."

"Has she asked you for money?"

"Not yet."

"Well, that won't be long in coming. But I have only now got a look at you. Are you quite well?"

"Yes."

"Shurotchka!" cried Marfa Timofyevna suddenly, "run and tell Lisaveta Mihalovna,—at least, no, ask her... is she down-stairs?"

"Yes."

"Well, then; ask her where she put my book? she will know."

"Very well."

The old lady grew fidgety again and began opening a drawer in the chest. Lavretsky sat still without stirring in his place.

All at once light footsteps were heard on the stairs—and Lisa came in.

Lavretsky stood up and bowed; Lisa remained at the door.

"Lisa, Lisa, darling," began Marfa Timofyevna eagerly, "where is my book? where did you put my book?"

"What book, auntie?"

"Why, goodness me, that book! But I didn't call you though... There, it doesn't matter. What are you doing down-stairs? Here Fedor Ivanitch has come. How is your head?"

"It's nothing."

"You keep saying it's nothing. What have you going on down-stairs—music?"

"No—they are playing cards."

"Well, she's ready for anything. Shurotchka, I see you want a run in the garden—run along."

"Oh, no, Marfa Timofyevna."

"Don't argue, if you please, run along. Nastasya Karpovna has gone out into the garden all by herself; you keep her company. You must treat the old with respect."—Shurotchka departed—"But where is my cap? Where has it got to?"

"Let me look for it," said Lisa.

"Sit down, sit down; I have still the use of my legs. It must be inside in my bedroom."

And flinging a sidelong glance in Lavretsky's direction, Marfa Timofyevna went out. She left the door open; but suddenly she came back to it and shut it.

Lisa leant back against her chair and quietly covered her face with her hands; Lavretsky remained where he was.

"This is how we were to meet again!" he brought out at last.

Lisa took her hands from her face.

"Yes," she said faintly: "we were quickly punished."

"Punished," said Lavretsky.... "What had you done to be punished?"

Lisa raised her eyes to him. There was neither sorrow or disquiet expressed in them; they seemed smaller and dimmer. Her face was pale; and pale too her slightly parted lips.

Lavretsky's heart shuddered for pity and love.

"You wrote to me; all is over," he whispered, "yes, all is over—before it had begun."

"We must forget all that," Lisa brought out; "I am glad that you have come; I wanted to write to you, but it is better so. Only we must take advantage quickly of these minutes. It is left for both of us to do our duty. You, Fedor Ivanitch, must be reconciled with your wife."

"Lisa!"

"I beg you to do so; by that alone can we expiate... all that has happened. You will think about it—and will not refuse me."

"Lisa, for God's sake,—you are asking what is impossible. I am ready to do everything you tell me; but to be reconciled to her now!... I consent to everything, I have forgotten everything; but I cannot force my heart.... Indeed, this is cruel!

"I do not even ask of you... what you say; do not live with her, if you cannot; but be reconciled," replied Lisa and again she hid her eyes in her hand.—"remember your little girl; do it for my sake."

"Very well," Lavretsky muttered between his teeth: "I will do that, I suppose in that I shall fulfill my duty. But you-what does your duty consist in?"

"That I know myself."

Lavretsky started suddenly.

"You cannot be making up your mind to marry Panshin?" he said.

Lisa gave an almost imperceptible smile.

"Oh, no!" she said.

"Ah, Lisa, Lisa!" cried Lavretsky, "how happy you might have been!"

Lisa looked at him again.

"Now you see yourself, Fedor Ivanitch, that happiness does not depend on us, but on God."

"Yes, because you—"

The door from the adjoining room opened quickly and Marfa Timofyevna came in with her cap in her hand.

"I have found it at last," she said, standing between Lavretsky and Lisa; "I had laid it down myself. That's what age does for one, alack—though youth's not much better."

"Well, and are you going to Lavriky yourself with your wife?" she added, turning to Lavretsky.

"To Lavriky with her? I don't know," he said, after a moment's hesitation.

"You are not going down-stairs."

"To-day,—no, I'm not."

"Well, well, you know best; but you, Lisa, I think, ought to go down. Ah, merciful powers, I have forgotten to feed my bullfinch. There, stop a minute, I'll soon—" And Marfa Timofyevna ran off without putting on her cap.

Lavretsky walked quickly up to Lisa.

"Lisa," he began in a voice of entreaty, "we are parting for ever, my heart is torn,—give me your hand at parting."

Lisa raised her head, her wearied eyes, their light almost extinct, rested upon him.... "No," she uttered, and she drew back the hand she was holding out. "No, Lavretsky (it was the first time she had used this name), I will not give you my hand. What is the good? Go away, I beseech you. You know I love you... yes, I love you," she added with an effort; "but no... no."

She pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

"Give me, at least, that handkerchief."

The door creaked... the handkerchief slid on to Lisa's lap. Lavretsky snatched it before it had time to fall to the floor, thrust it quickly into a side pocket, and turning round met Marfa Timofyevna's eyes.

"Lisa, darling, I fancy your mother is calling you," the old lady declared.

Lisa at once got up and went away.

Marfa Timofyevna sat down again in her corner. Lavretsky began to take leave of her.

"Fedor," she said suddenly.

"What is it?"

"Are you an honest man?"

"What?"

"I ask you, are you an honest man?"

"I hope so."

"H'm. But give me your word of honour that you will be an honest man."

"Certainly. But why?"

"I know why. And you too, my dear friend, if you think well, you're no fool—will understand why I ask it of you. And now, good-bye, my dear. Thanks for your visit; and remember you have given your word, Fedya, and kiss me. Oh, my dear, it's hard for you, I know; but there, it's not easy for any one. Once I used to envy the flies; I thought it's for them it's good to be alive but one night I heard a fly complaining in a spider's web—no, I think, they too have their troubles. There's no help, Fedya; but remember your promise all the same. Good-bye."

Lavretsky went down the back staircase, and had reached the gates when a man-servant overtook him.

"Marya Dmitrievna told me to ask you to go in to her," he commenced to Lavretsky.

"Tell her, my boy, that just now I can't—" Fedor Ivanitch was beginning.

"Her excellency told me to ask you very particularly," continued the servant. "She gave orders to say she was at home."

"Have the visitors gone?" asked Lavretsky.

"Certainly, sir," replied the servant with a grin.

Lavretsky shrugged his shoulders and followed him.



Chapter XLIII

Marya Dmitrievna was sitting alone in her boudoir in an easy-chair, sniffing eau de cologne; a glass of orange-flower-water was standing on a little table near her. She was agitated and seemed nervous.

Lavretsky came in.

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

"Yes," replied Marya Dmitrievna, and she sipped a little water: "I heard that you had gone straight up to my aunt; I gave orders that you should be asked to come in; I wanted to have a little talk with you. Sit down, please," Marya Dmitrievna took breath. "You know," she went on, "your wife has come."

"I was aware of that," remarked Lavretsky.

"Well, then, that is, I wanted to say, she came to me, and I received her; that is what I wanted to explain to you, Fedor Ivanitch. Thank God I have, I may say, gained universal respect, and for no consideration in the world would I do anything improper. Though I foresaw that it would be disagreeable to you, still I could not make up my mind to deny myself to her, Fedor Ivanitch; she is a relation of mine—through you; put yourself in my position, what right had I to shut my doors on her—you will agree with me?"

"You are exciting yourself needlessly, Mary Dmitrievna," replied Lavretsky; "you acted very well, I am not angry. I have not the least intention of depriving Varvara Pavlovna of the opportunity of seeing her friends; I did not come in to you to-day simply because I did not care to meet her—that was all."

"Ah, how glad I am to hear you say that, Fedor Ivanitch," cried Marya Dmitrievna, "but I always expected it of your noble sentiments. And as for my being excited—that's not to be wondered at; I am a woman and a mother. And your wife... of course I cannot judge between you and her—as I said to her herself; but she is such a delightful woman that she can produce nothing but a pleasant impression."

Lavretsky gave a laugh and played with his hat.

"And this is what I wanted to say to you besides, Fedor Ivanitch," continued Marya Dmitrievna, moving slightly nearer up to him, "if you had seen the modesty of her behaviour, how respectful she is! Really, it is quite touching. And if you had heard how she spoke of you! I have been to blame towards him, she said, altogether; I did not know how to appreciate him, she said; he is an angel, she said, and not a man. Really, that is what she said—an angel. Her penitence is such... Ah, upon my word, I have never seen such penitence!"

"Well, Marya Dmitrievna," observed Lavretsky, "if I may be inquisitive: I am told that Varvara Pavlovna has been singing in your drawing-room; did she sing during the time of her penitence, or how was it?"

"Ah, I wonder you are not ashamed to talk like that! She sang and played the piano only to do me a kindness, because I positively entreated, almost commanded her to do so. I saw that she was sad, so sad; I thought how to distract her mind—and I heard that she had such marvellous talent! I assure you, Fedor Ivanitch, she is utterly crushed, ask Sergei Petrovitch even; a heart-broken woman, tout a fait: what do you say?"

Lavretsky only shrugged his shoulders.

"And then what a little angel is that Adotchka of yours, what a darling! How sweet she is, what a clever little thing; how she speaks French; and understand Russian too—she called me 'auntie' in Russian. And you know that as for shyness—almost all children at her age are shy—there's not a trace of it. She's so like you, Fedor Ivanitch, it's amazing. The eyes, the forehead—well, it's you over again, precisely you. I am not particularly fond of little children, I must own; but I simply lost my heart to your little girl."

"Marya Dmitrievna," Lavretsky blurted out suddenly, "allow me to ask you what is your object in talking to me like this?"

"What object?" Marya Dmitrievna sniffed her eau de cologne again, and took a sip of water. "Why, I am speaking to you, Fedor Ivanitch, because—I am a relation of yours, you know, I take the warmest interest in you—I know your heart is of the best. Listen to me, mon cousin. I am at any rate a woman of experience, and I shall not talk at random: forgive her, forgive your wife." Marya Dmitrievna's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Only think: her youth, her inexperience... and who knows, perhaps, bad example; she had not a mother who could bring her up in the right way. Forgive her, Fedor Ivanitch, she has been punished enough."

The tears were trickling down Marya Dmitrievna's cheeks: she did not wipe them away, she was fond of weeping. Lavretsky sat as if on thorns. "Good God," he thought, "what torture, what a day I have had to-day!"

"You make no reply," Marya Dmitrievna began again. "How am I to understand you? Can you really be so cruel? No, I will not believe it. I feel that my words have influenced you, Fedor Ivanitch. God reward you for your goodness, and now receive your wife from my hands."

Involuntarily Lavretsky jumped up from his chair; Marya Dmitrievna also rose and running quickly behind a screen, she led forth Varvara Pavlovna. Pale, almost lifeless, with downcast eyes, she seemed to have renounced all thought, all will of her own, and to have surrendered herself completely to Marya Dmitrievna.

Lavretsky stepped back a pace.

"You have been here all the time!" he cried.

"Do not blame her," explained Marya Dmitrievna; "she was most unwilling to stay, but I forced her to remain. I put her behind the screen. She assured me that this would only anger you more; I would not even listen to her; I know you better than she does. Take your wife back from my hands; come, Varya, do not fear, fall at your husband's feet (she gave a pull at her arm) and my blessing"...

"Stop a minute, Marya Dmitrievna," said Lavretsky in a low but startlingly impressive voice. "I dare say you are fond of affecting scenes" (Lavretsky was right, Marya Dmitrievna still retained her school-girl's passion for a little melodramatic effect), "they amuse you; but they may be anything but pleasant for other people. But I am not going to talk to you; in this scene you are not the principal character. What do you want to get out of me, madam?" he added, turning to his wife. "Haven't I done all I could for you? Don't tell me you did not contrive this interview; I shall not believe you—and you know that I cannot possibly believe you. What is it you want? You are clever—you do nothing without an object. You must realise, that as for living with, as I once lived with you, that I cannot do; not because I am angry with you, but because I have become a different man. I told you so the day after your return, and you yourself, at that moment, agreed with me in your! heart. But you want to reinstate yourself in public opinion; it is not enough for you to live in my house, you want to live with me under the same roof—isn't that it?"

"I want your forgiveness," pronounced Varvara Pavlovna, not raising her eyes.

"She wants your forgiveness," repeated Marya Dmitrievna.

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

"And not for her own sake, but for your Ada's," repeated Marya Dmitrievna.

"Very good. Is that what you want?" Lavretsky uttered with an effort. "Certainly, I consent to that too."

Varvara Pavlovna darted a swift glance at him, but Marya Dmitrievna cried: "There, God be thanked!" and again drew Varvara Pavlvona forward by the arm. "Take her now from my arms—"

"Stop a minute, I tell you," Lavretsky interrupted her, "I agree to live with you, Varvara Pavlovna," he continued, "that is to say, I will conduct you to Lavriky, and I will live there with you, as long as I can endure it, and then I will go away—and will come back again. You see, I do not want to deceive you; but do not demand anything more. You would laugh yourself if I were to carry out the desire of our respected cousin, were to press you to my breast, and to fall to assuring you that ... that the past had not been; and the felled tree can bud again. But I see, I must submit. You will not understand these words... but that's no matter. I repeat, I will live with you... or no, I cannot promise that... I will be reconciled with you, I will regard you as my wife again."

"Give her, at least your hand on it," observed Marya Dmitrievna, whose tears had long since dried up.

"I have never deceived Varvara Pavlovna hitherto," returned Lavretsky; "she will believe me without that. I will take her to Lavriky; and remember, Varvara Pavlovna, our treaty is to be reckoned as broken directly you go away from Lavriky. And now allow me to take leave."

He bowed to both the ladies, and hurriedly went away.

"Are you not going to take her with you!" Marya Dmitrievna cried after him.... "Leave him alone," Varvara Pavlovna whispered to her. And at once she embraced her, and began thanking her, kissing her hands and calling her saviour.

Marya Dmitrievna received her caresses indulgently; but at heart she was discontented with Lavretsky, with Varvara Pavlovna, and with the whole scene she had prepared. Very little sentimentality had come of it; Varvara Pavlovna, in her opinion, ought to have flung herself at her husband's feet.

"How was it you didn't understand me?" she commented: "I kept saying 'down.'"

"It is better as it was, dear auntie; do not be uneasy—it was all for the best," Varvara Pavlovna assured her.

"Well, any way, he's as cold as ice," observed Marya Dmitrievna. "You didn't weep, it is true, but I was in floods of tears before his eyes. He wants to shut you up at Lavriky. Why, won't you even be able to come and see me? All men are unfeeling," she concluded, with a significant shake of the head.

"But then women can appreciate goodness and noble-heartedness," said Varvara Pavlovna, and gently dropping on her knees before Marya Dmitrievna, she flung her arms about her round person, and pressed her face against it. That face wore a sly smile, but Marya Dmitrievna's tears began to flow again.

When Lavretsky returned home, he locked himself in his valet's room, and flung himself on a sofa; he lay like that till morning.



Chapter XLIV

The following day was Sunday. The sound of bells ringing for early mass did not wake Lavretsky—he had not closed his eyes all night—but it reminded him of another Sunday, when at Lisa's desire he had gone to church. He got up hastily; some secret voice told him that he would see her there to-day. He went noiselessly out of the house, leaving a message for Varvara Pavlovna that he would be back to dinner, and with long strides he made his way in the direction in which the monotonously mournful bells were calling him. He arrived early; there was scarcely any one in the church; a deacon was reading the service in the chair; the measured drone of his voice—sometimes broken by a cough—fell and rose at even intervals. Lavretsky placed himself not far from the entrance. Worshippers came in one by one, stopped, crossed themselves, and bowed in all directions; their steps rang out in the empty, silent church, echoing back distinctly under the arched roof. An infirm poor little old woman in a worn-out cloak with a hood was on her knees near Lavretsky, praying assiduously; her toothless, yellow, wrinkled face expressed intense emotion; her red eyes were gazing fixedly upwards at the holy figures on the iconostasis; her bony hand was constantly coming out from under her cloak, and slowly and earnestly making a great sign of the cross. A peasant with a bushy beard and a surly face, dishevelled and unkempt, came into the church, and at once fell on both knees, and began directly crossing himself in haste, bending back his head with a shake after each prostration. Such bitter grief was expressed in his face, and in all his actions, that Lavretsky made up his mind to go up to him and ask him what was wrong. The peasant timidly and morosely started back, looked at him.... "My son is dead," he articulated quickly, and again fell to bowing to the earth. "What could replace the consolations of the Church to them?" thought Lavretsky; and he tried! himself to pray, but his heart was hard and heavy, and his thoughts were far away. He kept expecting Lisa, but Lisa did not come. The church began to be full of people; but still she was not there. The service commenced, the deacon had already read the gospel, they began ringing for the last prayer; Lavretsky moved a little forward—and suddenly caught sight of Lisa. She had com before him, but he had not seen her; she was hidden in a recess between the wall and the choir, and neither moved nor looked round. Lavretsky did not take his eyes off he till the very end of the service; he was saying farewell to her. The people began to disperse, but she still remained; it seemed as though she were waiting for Lavretsky to go out. At last she crossed herself for the last time and went out—there was only a maid with her—not turning round. Lavretsky went out of the church after her and overtook her in the street; she was walking very quickly, with downcast head, and a veil over her face.

"Good-morning, Lisaveta Mihalovna," he said aloud with assumed carelessness: "may I accompany you?"

She made no reply; he walked beside her.

"Are you content with me?" he asked her, dropping his voice. "Have you heard what happened yesterday?"

"Yes, yes," she replied in a whisper, "that was well." And she went still more quickly.

"Are you content?"

Lisa only bent her head in assent.

"Fedor Ivanitch," she began in a calm but faint voice, "I wanted to beg you not to come to see us any more; go away as soon as possible, we may see each other again later—sometime—in a year. But now, do this for my sake; fulfil my request, for God's sake."

"I am ready to obey you in everything, Lisaveta Mihalovna; but are we really to part like this? will you not say one word to me?"

"Fedor Ivanitch, you are walking near me now.... But already you are so far from me. And not only you, but—"

"Speak out, I entreat you!" cried Lavretsky, "what do you mean?"

"You will hear perhaps... but whatever it may be, forget... no, do not forget; remember me."

"Me forget you—"

"That's enough, good-bye. Do not come after me."

"Lisa!" Lavretsky was beginning.

"Good-bye, good-bye!" she repeated, pulling her veil still lower and almost running forward. Lavretsky looked after her, and with bowed head, turned back along the street. He stumbled up against Lemm, who was also walking along with his eyes on the ground, and his hat pulled down to his nose.

They looked at one another without speaking.

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

"What have I to say?" returned Lemm, grimly. "I have nothing to say. All is dead, and we are dead (Alles ist todt, und wir sind todt). So you're going to the right, are you?"

"Yes."

"And I go to the left. Good-bye."

The following morning Fedor Ivanitch set off with his wife for Lavriky. She drove in front in the carriage with Ada and Justine; he behind, in the coach. The pretty little girl did not move away from the window the whole journey; she was astonished at everything; the peasants, the women, the wells, the yokes over the horses' heads, the bells and the flocks of crows. Justine shared her wonder. Varvara Pavlovna laughed at their remarks and exclamations. She was in excellent spirits; before leaving town, she had come to an explanation with her husband.

"I understand your position," she said to him, and from the look in her subtle eyes, he was able to infer that she understood his position fully, "but you must do me, at least, this justice, that I am easy to live with; I will not fetter you or hinder you; I wanted to secure Ada's future, I want nothing more."

"Well, you have obtained your object," observed Fedor Ivanitch.

"I only dream of one thing now: to hide myself for ever in obscurity. I shall remember your goodness always."

"Enough of that," he interrupted.

"And I shall know how to respect your independence and tranquillity," she went on, completing the phrases she had prepared.

Lavretsky made her a low bow.

Varvara Pavlovna then believed her husband was thanking her in his heart.

On the evening of the next day they reached Lavriky; a week later, Lavretsky set off for Moscow, leaving his wife five thousand roubles for her household expenses; and the day after Lavretsky's departure, Panshin made his appearance. Varvara Pavlovna had begged him not to forget her in her solitude. She gave him the best possible reception, and, till a late hour of the night, the lofty apartments of the house and even the garden re-echoed with the sound of music, singing, and lively French talk. For three days Varvara Pavlovna entertained Panshin; when he took leave of her, warmly pressing her lovely hands, he promised to come back very soon—and he kept his word.



Chapter XLV

Lisa had a room to herself on the second story of her mother's house, a clean bright little room with a little white bed, with pots of flowers in the corners and before the windows, a small writing-table, a book-stand, and a crucifix on the wall. It was always called the nursery; Lisa had been born in it. When she returned from the church where she had seen Lavretsky she set everything in her room in order more carefully than usual, dusted it everywhere, looked through and tied up with ribbon all her copybooks, and the letters of her girl-friends, shut up all the drawers, watered the flowers and caressed every blossom with her hand. All this she did without haste, noiselessly, with a kind of rapt and gentle solicitude on her face. She topped at last in the middle of the room, slowly looked around, and going up to the table above which the crucifix was hanging, she fell on her knees, dropped her head on to her clasped hands and remained motionless.

Marfa Timofyevna came in and found her in this position. Lisa did not observe her entrance. The old lady stepped out on tip-toe and coughed loudly several times outside the door. Lisa rose quickly and wiped her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears.

"Ah! I see, you have been setting your cell to rights again," observed Marfa Timofyevna, and she bent low over a young rose-tree in a pot; "how nice it smells!"

Lisa looked thoughtfully at her aunt.

"How strange you should use that word!" she murmured.

"What word, eh?" the old lady returned quickly. "What do you mean? This is horrible," she began, suddenly flinging off her cap and sitting down on Lisa's little bed; "it is more than I can bear! this is the fourth day now that I have been boiling over inside; I can't pretend not to notice any longer; I can't see you getting pale, and fading away, and weeping, I can't I can't!"

"Why, what is the matter, auntie?" said Lisa, "it's nothing."

"Nothing!" cried Marfa Timofyevna; "you may tell that to others but not to me. Nothing, who was on her knees just to this minute? and whose eyelashes are still wet with tears? Nothing, indeed! why, look at yourself, what have you done with your face, what has become of your eyes?—Nothing! do you suppose I don't know all?"

"It will pass off, auntie; give me time."

"It will pass of, but when? Good God! Merciful Saviour! can you have loved him like this? why, he's an old man, Lisa, darling. There, I don't dispute he's a good fellow, no harm in him; but what of that? we are all good people, the world is not so small, there will be always plenty of that commodity."

"I tell you, it will all pass away, it has all passed away already."

"Listen, Lisa, darling, what I am going to say to you," Marfa Timofyevna said suddenly, making Lisa sit beside her, and straightening her hair and her neckerchief. "It seems to you now in the mist of the worst of it that nothing can ever heal your sorrow. Ah, my darling, the only thing that can't be cured is death. You only say to yourself now: 'I won't give in to it—so there!' and you will be surprised yourself how soon, how easily it will pass of. Only have patience."

"Auntie," returned Lisa, "it has passed off already, it is all over."

"Passed! how has it passed? Why, your poor little nose has grown sharp already and you say it is over. A fine way of getting over it!"

"Yes, it is over, auntie, if you will only try to help me," Lisa declared with sudden animation, and she flung herself on Marfa Timofyevna's neck. "Dar auntie, be a friend to me, help me, don't be angry, understand me"...

"Why, what is it, what is it, my good girl? Don't terrify me, please; I shall scream directly; don't look at me like that; tell me quickly, what is it?"

"I—I want," Lisa hid her face on Marfa Timofyevna's bosom, "I want to go into a convent," she articulated faintly.

The old lady almost bounded off the bed.

"Cross yourself, my girl, Lisa, dear, think what you are saying; what are you thinking of? God have mercy on you!" she stammered at last. "Lie down, my darling, sleep a little, all this comes from sleeplessness, my dearie."

Lisa raised her head, her cheeks were glowing.

"No, auntie," she said, "don't speak like that; I have made up my mind, I prayed, I asked counsel of God; all is at an end, my life with you is at an end. Such a lesson was not for nothing; and it is not the first time that I have thought of it. Happiness was not for me; even when I had hopes of happiness, my heart was always heavy. I knew all my own sins and those of others, and how papa made our fortune; I know it all. For all that there must be expiation. I am sorry for you, sorry for mamma, for Lenotchka; but there is no help; I feel that there is no living here for me; I have taken leave of all, I have greeted everything in the house for the last time; something calls to me; I am sick at heart, I want to hide myself away for ever. Do not hinder me, do not dissuade me, help me, or else I must go away alone."

Marfa Timofyevna listened to her niece with horror.

"She is ill, she is raving," she thought: "we must send for a doctor; but for which one? Gedeonovsky was praising one the other day; he always tells lies—but perhaps this time he spoke the truth." But when she was convinced that Lisa was not ill, and was not raving, when she constantly made the same answer to all her expostulations, Marfa Timofyevna was alarmed and distressed in earnest. "But you don't know, my darling," she began to reason with her, "what a life it is in those convents! Why, they would feed you, my own, on green hemp oil, and they would put you in the coarsest linen, and make you go about in the cold; you will never be able to bear all that, Lisa, darling. All this is Agafya's doing; she led you astray. But then you know she began by living and lived for her own pleasure; you must live, too. At least, let me die in peace, and then do as you like. And who has ever heard of such a thing, for the sake of such a—for the sake of a goat's beard, God forgive us!—for the sake of a man—to go into a convent! Why, if you are so sick at heart, go on a pilgrimage, offer prayers to some saint, have a Te Deum sung, but don't put the black hood on your head, my dear creature, my good girl."

And Marfa Timofyevna wept bitterly.

Lisa comforted her, wiped away her tears and wept herself, but remained unshaken. In her despair Marfa Timofyevna had recourse to threats: to tell her mother all about it... but that too was of no avail. Only at the old lady's most earnest entreaties Lisa agreed to put off carrying out her plan for six months. Marfa Timofyevna was obliged to promise in return that if, within six months, she did not change her mind, she would herself help her and would do all she could to gain Marya Dmitrievna's consent.

In spite of her promise to bury herself in seclusion, at the first approach of cold weather, Varvara Pavlovna, having provided herself with funds, removed to Petersburg, where she took a modest but charming set of apartments, found for her by Panshin; who had left the O——-district a little before. During the latter part of his residence in O——- he had completely lost Marya Dmitrievna's good graces; he had suddenly given up visiting her and scarcely stirred from Lavriky. Varvara Pavolvna had enslaved him, literally enslaved him, no other word can describe her boundless, irresistible, unquestioned sway over him.

Lavretsky spent the winter in Moscow; and in the spring of the following year the news reached him that Lisa had taken the veil in the B——-convent, in one of the remote parts of Russia.



Epilogue

Eight years had passed by. Once more the spring had come.... But we will say a few words first of the fate of Mihalevitch, Panshin, and Madame Laverestky—and then take leave of them. Mihalevitch, after long wanderings, has at last fallen in with exactly the right work for him; he has received the position of senior superintendent of a government school. He is very well content with his lot; his pupils adore him, though they mimick him too. Panshin has gained great advancement in rank, and already has a directorship in view; he walks with a slight stoop, caused doubtless by the weight round his neck of the Vladimir cross which has been conferred on him. The official in him has finally gained the ascendency over the artist; his still youngish face has grown yellow, and his hair scanty; he now neither sings nor sketches, but applies himself in secret to literature; he has written a comedy, in the style of a "proverb," and as nowadays all writers have to draw a portrait of some one or something, he has drawn in it the portrait of a coquette, and he reads it privately to two or three ladies who look kindly upon him. He has, however, not entered upon matrimony, though many excellent opportunities of doing so have presented themselves. For this Varvara Pavlovna was responsible. As for her, she lives constantly at Paris, as in former days. Fedor Ivanitch has given her a promissory note for a large sum, and has so secured immunity from the possibility of her making a second sudden descent upon him. She has grown older and stouter, but is still charming and elegant. Every one has his ideal. Varvara Pavlovna found hers in the dramatic works of M. Dumas Fils. She diligently frequents the theatres, when consumptive and sentimental "dames aux camelias" are brought on the stage; to be Madame Doche seems to her the height of human bliss; she once declared that she did not desire a better fate for her own daughter. It is to be hoped that fate will spare Mademoiselle Ada from such happiness; from a rosy-cheeked, chubby child she has turned into a weak-chested, pale girl; her nerves are already deranged. The number of Varvara Pavlovna adorers has diminished, but she still has some; a few she will probably retain to the end of her days. The most ardent of them in these later days is a certain Zakurdalo-Skubrinikov, a retired guardsman, a full-bearded man of thirty-eight, of exceptionally vigorous physique. The French habitues of Madame Lavretsky's salon call him "le gros taureau de l'Ukraine;" Varvara Pavlovna never invites him to her fashionable evening reunions, but he is in the fullest enjoyment of her favours.

And so—eight years have passed by. Once more the breezes of spring breathed brightness and rejoicing from the heavens; once more spring was smiling upon the earth and upon men; once more under her caresses everything was turning to blossom, to love, to song. The town of O——-had undergone little change in the course of these eight years; but Marya Dmitrievna's house seemed to have grown younger; its freshly-painted walls gave a bright welcome, and the panes of its open windows were crimson, shining in the setting sun; from these windows the light merry sound of ringing young voices and continual laughter floated into the street; the whole house seemed astir with life and brimming over with gaiety. The lady of the house herself had long been in her tomb; Marya Dmitrievna had died two years after Lisa took the veil, and Mafa Timofyevna had not long survived her niece; they lay side by side in the cemetery of the town. Nastasya Karpovna too was no more; for several years! the faithful old woman had gone every week to say a prayer over her friend's ashes..... Her time had come, and now her bones too lay in the damp earth. But Marya Dmitreivna's house had not passed into stranger's hands, it had not gone out of her family, the home had not been broken upon. Lenotchka, transformed into a slim, beautiful young girl, and her betrothed lover—a fair-haired officer of hussars; Marya Dmitrievna's son, who had just been married in Petersburg and had come with his young wife for the spring to O——-; his wife's sister, a school-girl of sixteen, with glowing cheeks and bright eyes; Shurotchka, grown up and also pretty, made up the youthful household, whose laughter and talk set the walls of the Kalitins' house resounding. Everything in the house was changed, everything was in keeping with its new inhabitants. Beardless servant lads, grinning and full of fun, had replaced the sober old servants of former days. Two setter dogs dashed wildly about and gambolled over the sofas, where the fat Roska had at one time waddled in solemn dignity. The stables were filled with slender racers, spirited carriage horses, fiery out-riders with plaited manes, and riding horses from the Don. The breakfast, dinner, and supper-hours were all in confusion and disorder; in the words of the neighbours, "unheard-of arrangements" were made.

On the evening of which we are speaking, the inhabitants of the Kalitins' house (the eldest of them, Lenotchka's betrothed, was only twenty-four) were engaged in a game, which, though not of a very complicated nature, was, to judge from their merry laughter, exceedingly entertaining to them; they were running about the rooms, chasing one another; the dogs, too, were running and barking, and the canaries, hanging in cages above the windows, were straining their throats in rivalry and adding to the general uproar by the shrill trilling of their piercing notes. At the very height of this deafening merry-making a mud-bespattered carriage stopped at the gate, and a man of five-and forty, in a travelling dress, stepped out of it and stood still in amazement. He stood a little time without stirring, watching the house with attentive eyes; then went through the little gate in the courtyard, and slowly mounted the steps. In the hall he met no one; but the door of a room was suddenly! flung open, and out of it rushed Shurotchka, flushed and hot, and instantly, with a ringing shout, all the young party in pursuit of her. They stopped short at once and were quiet at the sight of a stranger; but their clear eyes fixed on him wore the same friendly expression, and their fresh faces were still smiling as Marya Dmitreivna's son went up to the visitor and asked him cordially what he could do for him.

"I am Lavretsky," replied the visitor.

He was answered by a shout in chorus—and not because these young people were greatly delighted at the arrival of a distant, almost forgotten relation, but simply because they were ready to be delighted and make noise at every opportunity. They surrounded Lavretsky at once; Lenotchka, as an old acquaintance, was the first to mention her own name, and assured him that in a little while she would have certainly recognised him. She presented him to the rest of the party, calling each, even her betrothed, by their pet names. They all trooped through the dining-room into the drawing-room. The walls of both rooms had been repapered; but the furniture remained the same. Lavretsky recognised the piano; even the embroidery-frame in the window was just the same, and in the same position, and it seemed with the same unfinished embroidery on it, as eight years ago. They made him sit down in a comfortable arm-chair; all sat down politely in a circle round him. Questions, exclamations, and anecdotes followed.

"It's a long time since we have seen you," observed Lenotchka simply, "and Varvara Pavlovna we have seen nothing of either."

"Well, no wonder!" her brother hastened to interpose. "I carried you off to Petersburg, and Fedor Ivanitch has been living all the time in the country."

"Yes, and mamma died soon after then."

"And Marfa Timofyevna," observed Shurotchka.

"And Nastasya Karpovna," added Lenotchka, "and Monsier Lemm."

"What? is Lemm dead?" inquired Lavretsky.

"Yes," replied young Kalitin, "he left here for Odessa; they say some one enticed him there; and there he died."

"You don't happen to know,... did he leave any music?"

"I don't know; not very likely."

All were silent and looked about them. A slight cloud of melancholy flitted over all the young faces.

"But Matross is alive," said Lenotchka suddenly.

"And Gedeonovsky," added her brother.

At Gedeonovsky's name a merry laugh broke out at once.

"Yes, he is alive, and as great a liar as ever," Marya Dmitrievna's son continued; "and only fancy, yesterday this madcap"—pointing to the school-girl, his wife's sister—"put some pepper in his snuff-box."

"How he did sneeze!" cried Lenotchka, and again there was a burst of unrestrained laughter.

"We have had news of Lisa lately," observed young Kalitin, and again a hush fell upon all; "there was good news of her; she is recovering her health a little now."

"She is still in the same convent?" Lavretsky asked, not without some effort.

"Yes, still in the same."

"Does she write to you?"

"No, never; but we get news through other people."

A sudden and profound silence followed. "A good angel is passing over," all were thinking.

"Wouldn't you like to go into the garden?" said Kalitin, turning to Lavretsky; "it is very nice now, though we have let it run wild a little."

Lavretsky went out into the garden, and the first thing that met his eyes was the very garden seat on which he had once spent with Lisa those few blissful moments, never repeated; it had grown black and warped; but he recognised it, and his soul was filled with that emotion, unequalled for sweetness and for bitterness—the emotion of keen sorrow for vanished youth, for the happiness which has once been possessed.

He walked along the avenues with the young people; the lime-trees looked hardly older or taller in the eight years, but their shade was thicker; on the other hand, all the bushes had sprung up, the raspberry bushes had grown strong, the hazels were tangled thicket, and from all sides rose the fresh scent of the trees and grass and lilac.

"This would be a nice place for Puss-in-the-Corner," cried Lenotchka suddenly, as they came upon a small green lawn, surrounded by lime-trees, "and we are just five, too."

"Have you forgotten Fedor Ivanitch?" replied her brother,... "or didn't you count yourself?"

Lenotchka blushed slightly.

"But would Fedor Ivanitch, at his age——-" she began.

"Please, play your games," Lavretsky hastened to interpose; "don't pay attention to me. I shall be happier myself, when I am sure I am not in your way. And there's no need for you to entertain me; we old fellows have an occupation which you know nothing of yet, and which no amusement can replace—our memories."

The young people listened to Lavretsky with polite but rather ironical respect—as though a teacher were giving them a lesson—and suddenly they all dispersed, and ran to the lawn; four stood near trees, one in the middle, and the game began.

And Lavretsky went back into the house, went into the dining-room, drew near the piano and touched one of the keys; it gave out a faint but clear sound; on that note had begun the inspired melody with which long ago on that same happy night Lemm, the dead Lemm, had thrown him into such transports. Then Lavretsky went into the drawing-room, and for a long time he did not leave it; in that room where he had so often seen Lisa, her image rose most vividly before him; he seemed to feel the traces of her presence round him; but his grief for her was crushing, not easy to bear; it had none of the peace which comes with death. Lisa still lived somewhere, hidden and afar; he thought of her as of the living, but he did not recognize the girl he had once loved in that dim pale shadow, cloaked in a nun's dress and encircled in misty clouds of incense. Lavretsky would not have recognized himself, could he have looked at himself, as mentally he looked at Lisa. In the course of these eight years he had passed that turning-point in life, which many never pass, but without which no one can be a good man to the end; he had really ceased to think of his own happiness, of his personal aims. He had grown calm, and—why hide the truth?—he had grown old not only in face and in body, he had grown old in heart; to keep a young heart up to old age, as some say, is not only difficult, but almost ridiculous; he may well be content who has not lost his belief in goodness, his steadfast will, and his zeal for work. Lavretsky had good reason to be content; he had become actually an excellent farmer, he had really learnt to cultivate the land, and his labours were not only for himself; he had, to the best of his powers, secured on a firm basis the welfare of his peasants.

Lavretsky went out of the house into the garden, and sat down on the familiar garden seat. And on this loved spot, facing the house where for the last time he had vainly stretched out his hand for the enchanted cup which frothed and sparkled with the golden wine of delight, he, a solitary homeless wanderer, looked back upon his life, while the joyous shouts of the younger generation who were already filling his place floated across the garden to him. His heart was sad, but not weighed down, nor bitter; much there was to regret, nothing to be ashamed of.

"Play away, be gay, grow strong, vigorous youth!" he thought, and there was no bitterness in his meditations; "your life is before you, and for you life will be easier; you have not, as we had, to find out a path for yourselves, to struggle, to fall, and to rise again in the dark; we had enough to do to last out—and how many of us did not last out?—but you need only do your duty, work away, and the blessing of an old man be with you. For me, after to-day, after these emotions, there remains to take my leave at last,—and though sadly, without envy, without any dark feelings, to say, in sight of the end, in sight of God who awaits me: 'Welcome, lonely old age! burn out, useless life!'"

Lavretsky quietly rose and quietly went away; no one noticed him, no one detained him; the joyous cries sounded more loudly in the garden behind the thick green wall of high lime-trees. He took his seat in the carriage and bade the coachman drive home and not hurry the horses.



"And the end?" perhaps the dissatisfied reader will inquire. "What became of Lavretsky afterwards, and of Lisa?" But what is there to tell of people who, though still alive, have withdrawn from the battlefield of life? They say, Lavretsky visited that remote convent where Lisa had hidden herself—that he saw her. Crossing over from choir to choir, she walked close past him, moving with the even, hurried, but meek walk of a nun; and she did not glance at him; only the eyelashes on the side towards him quivered a little, only she bent her emaciated face lower, and the fingers of her clasped hands, entwined with her rosary, were pressed still closer to one another. What were they both thinking, what were they feeling? Who can know? who can say? There are such moments in life, there are such feelings... One can but point to them—and pass them by.

THE END