“You don’t recognise me,” he said, taking off his hat, “but I recognise
you in spite of its being seven years since I saw you last. You were a
child then. I am Lavretsky. Is your mother at home? Can I see her?”
“Mamma will be glad to see you,” replied Lisa; “she had heard of your
arrival.”
“Let me see, I think your name is Elisaveta?” said Lavretsky, as he went
up the stairs.
“Yes.”
“I remember you very well; you had even then a face one doesn’t forget.
I used to bring you sweets in those days.”
Lisa blushed and thought what a queer man. Lavretsky stopped for an
instant in the hall. Lisa went into the drawing-room, where Panshin’s
voice and laugh could be heard; he had been communicating some gossip of
the town to Marya Dmitrievna, and Gedeonovksy, who by this time had come
in from the garden, and he was himself laughing aloud at the story he
was telling. At the name of Lavretsky, Marya Dmitrievna was all in a
flutter. She turned pale and went up to meet him.
“How do you do, how do you do, my dear cousin?” she cried in a plaintive
and almost tearful voice, “how glad I am to see you!”
“How are you, cousin?” replied Lavretsky, with a friendly pressure of
her out-stretched hand; “how has Providence been treating you?”
“Sit down, sit down, my dear Fedor Ivanitch. Ah, how glad I am! But let
me present my daughter Lisa to you.”
“I have already introduced myself to Lisaveta Mihalovna,” interposed
Lavretsky.
“Monsier Panshin... Sergei Petrovitch Gedeonovsky... Please sit down.
When I look at you, I can hardly believe my eyes. How are you?”
“As you see, I’m flourishing. And you, too, cousin--no ill-luck to
you!--have grown no thinner in eight years.”
“To think how long it is since we met!” observed Marya Dmitrievna
dreamily. “Where have you come from now? Where did you leave... that is,
I meant to say,” she put in hastily, “I meant to say, are you going to
be with us for long?”
“I have come now from Berlin,” replied Lavretsky, “and to-morrow I shall
go into the country--probably for a long time.”
“You will live at Lavriky, I suppose?”
“No, not at Lavriky; I have a little place twenty miles from here: I am
going there.”
“Is that the little estate that came to you from Glafira Petrovna?”
“Yes.”
“Really, Fedor Ivanitch! You have such a magnificent house at Lavriky.”
Lavretsky knitted his brows a little.
“Yes... but there’s a small lodge in this little property, and I need
nothing more for a time. That place is the most convenient for me now.”
Marya Dmitrievna was again thrown into such a state of agitation that
she became quite stiff, and her hands hung lifeless by her sides.
Panshin came to her support by entering into conversation with
Lavretsky. Marya Dmitrievna regained her composure, she leaned back in
her arm-chair and now and then put in a word. But she looked all the
while with such sympathy at her guest, sighed so significantly, and
shook her head so dejectedly, that the latter at last lost patience and
asked her rather sharply if she was unwell.
“Thank God, no,” replied Marya Dmitrievna; “why do you ask?”
“Oh, I fancied you didn’t seem to be quite yourself.”
Marya Dmitrievna assumed a dignified and somewhat offended air. “If
that’s how the land lies,” she thought, “it’s absolutely no matter to
me; I see, my good fellow, it’s all like water on a duck’s back for you;
any other man would have wasted away with grief, but you’ve grown fat
on it.” Marya Dmitrievna did not mince matters in her own mind; she
expressed herself with more elegance aloud.
Lavretsky certainly did not look like the victim of fate. His
rosy-cheeked typical Russian face, with its large white brow, rather
thick nose, and wide straight lips seemed breathing with the wild
health of the steppes, with vigorous primaeval energy. He was splendidly
well-built, and his fair curly hair stood up on his head like a boy’s.
It was only in his blue eyes, with their overhanging brows and
somewhat fixed look, that one could trace an expression, not exactly
of melancholy, nor exactly of weariness, and his voice had almost too
measured a cadence.
Panshin meanwhile continued to keep up the conversation. He turned
it upon the profits of sugar-boiling, on which he had lately read two
French pamphlets, and with modest composure undertook to expound their
contents, without mentioning, however, a single word about the source of
his information.
“Good God, it is Fedya!” came through the half-opened door the voice of
Marfa Timofyevna in the next room. “Fedya himself!” and the old woman
ran hurriedly into the room. Lavretsky had not time to get up from his
seat before she had him in her arms. “Let me have a look at you,” she
said, holding his face off at arm’s length. “Ah! what a splendid fellow
you are! You’ve grown older a little, but not a bit changed for the
worse, upon my word! But why are you kissing my hands--kiss my face
if you’re not afraid of my wrinkled cheeks. You never asked after
me--whether your aunt was alive--I warrant: and you were in my arms as
soon as you were born, you great rascal! Well, that is nothing to you, I
suppose; why should you remember me? But it was a good idea of yours to
come back. And pray,” she added, turning to Marya Dmitrievna, “have you
offered him something to eat?”
“I don’t want anything,” Lavretsky hastened to declare.
“Come, you must at least have some tea, my dear. Lord have mercy on us!
He has come from I don’t know where, and they don’t even give him a cup
of tea! Lisa, run and stir them up, and make haste. I remember he was
dreadfully greedy when he was a little fellow, and he likes good things
now, I daresay.”
“My respects, Marfa Timofyevna,” said Panshin, approaching the delighted
old lady from one side with a low bow.
“Pardon me, sir,” replied Marfa Timofyevna, “for not observing you in my
delight. You have grown like your mother, the poor darling,” she went on
turning again to Lavretsky, “but your nose was always your father’s, and
your father’s it has remained. Well, and are you going to be with us for
long?”
“I am going to-morrow, aunt.”
“Where?”
“Home to Vassilyevskoe.”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes, to-morrow.”
“Well, if to-morrow it must be. God bless you--you know best. Only mind
you come and say good-bye to me.” The old woman patted his cheek. “I did
not think I should be here to see you; not that I have made up my mind
to die yet a while--I shall last another ten years, I daresay: all we
Pestovs live long; your late grandfather used to say we had two lives;
but you see there was no telling how much longer you were going to
dangle about abroad. Well, you’re a fine lad, a fine lad; can you lift
twenty stone with one hand as you used to do, eh? Your late pap was
fantastical in some things, if I may say so; but he did well in having
that Swiss to bring you up; do you remember you used to fight with your
fists with him?--gymnastics, wasn’t it they called it? But there, why I
am gabbling away like this; I have only been hindering Mr. PanSHIN (she
never pronounced his name PANshin as was correct) from holding forth.
Besides, we’d better go and have tea; yes, let’s go on to the terrace,
my boy, and drink it there; we have some real cream, not like what
you get in your Londons and Parises. Come along, come along, and you,
Fedusha, give me your arm. Oh! but what an arm it is! Upon my word, no
fear of my stumbling with you!”
Every one got up and went out on to the terrace, except Gedeonovsky, who
quietly took his departure. During the whole of Lavretsky’s conversation
with Marya Dmitrievna, Panshin, and Marfa Timofyevna, he sat in a
corner, blinking attentively, with an open mouth of childish curiosity;
now he was in haste to spread the news of the new arrival through the
town.
At eleven o’clock on the evening of the same day, this is what was
happening in Madame Kalitin’s house. Downstairs, Vladimir Nikolaitch,
seizing a favourable moment, was taking leave of Lisa at the
drawing-room door, and saying to her, as he held her hand, “You know who
it is draws me here; you know why I am constantly coming to your house;
what need of words when all is clear as it is?” Lisa did not speak,
and looked on the ground, without smiling, with her brows slightly
contracted, and a flush on her cheek, but she did not draw away her
hands. While up-stairs, in Marfa Timofyevna’s room, by the light of a
little lamp hanging before the tarnished old holy images, Lavretsky was
sitting in a low chair, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in
his hands; the old woman, standing before him, now and then silently
stroked his hair. He spent more than an hour with her, after taking
leave of his hostess; he had scarcely said anything to his kind old
friend, and she did not question him.... Indeed, what need to speak,
what was there to ask? Without that she understood all, and felt for
everything of which his heart was full.