Four days later, he set off for home. His coach rolled quickly along
the soft cross-road. There had been no rain for a fortnight; a fine milk
mist was diffused in the air and hung over the distant woods; a smell of
burning came from it. A multitude of darkish clouds with blurred edges
were creeping across the pale blue sky; a fairly strong breeze blew a
dry and steady gale, without dispelling the heat. Leaning back with
his head on the cushion and his arms crossed on his breast, Lavretsky
watched the furrowed fields unfolding like a fan before him, the willow
bushes as they slowly came into sight, and the dull ravens and rooks,
who looked sidelong with stupid suspicion at the approaching carriage,
the long ditches, overgrown with mugwort, wormwood, and mountain ash;
and as he watched the fresh fertile wilderness and solitude of this
steppe country, the greenness, the long slopes, and valleys with stunted
oak bushes, the grey villages, and scant birch trees,--the whole Russian
landscape, so long unseen by him, stirred emotion at once pleasant,
sweet and almost painful in his heart, and he felt weighed down by
a kind of pleasant oppression. Slowly his thoughts wandered; their
outlines were as vague and indistinct as the outlines of the clouds
which seemed to be wandering at random overhead. He remembered his
childhood, his mother; he remembered her death, how they had carried
him in to her, and how, clasping his head to her bosom, she had begun
to wail over him, then had glanced at Glafira Petrovna--and checked
herself. He remembered his father, at first vigorous, discontented with
everything, with strident voice; and later, blind, tearful, with unkempt
grey beard; he remembered how one day after drinking a glass too much at
dinner, and spilling the gravy over his napkin, he began to relate his
conquests, growing red in the face, and winking with his sightless eyes;
he remembered Varvara Pavlovna,--and involuntarily shuddered, as a man
shudders from a sudden internal pain, and shook his head. Then his
thoughts came to a stop at Lisa.
“There,” he thought, “is a new creature, only just entering on life.
A nice girl, what will become of her? She is good-looking too. A
pale, fresh face, mouth and eyes so serious, and an honest innocent
expression. It is a pity she seems a little enthusiastic. A good figure,
and she moves so lightly, and a soft voice. I like the way she stops
suddenly, listens attentively, without a smile, then grows thoughtful
and shakes back her hair. I fancy, too, that Panshin is not good enough
for her. What’s amiss with him, though? And besides, what business have
I to wonder about it? She will go along the same road as all the rest. I
had better go to sleep.” And Lavretsky closed his eyes.
He could not sleep, but he sank into the drowsy numbness of a journey.
Images of the past rose slowly as before, floated in his soul, mixed and
tangled up with other fancies. Lavretsky, for some unknown reason, began
to think about Robert Peel,... about French history--of how he would
gain a battle, if he were a general; he fancied the shots and the cries
.... His head slipped on one side, he opened his eyes. The same fields,
the same steppe scenery; the polished shoes of the trace-horses flashed
alternately through the driving dust; the coachman’s shirt, yellow
with red gussets, was puffed out by the wind.... “A nice home-coming!”
glanced through Lavretsky’s brain; and he cried, “Get on!” wrapped
himself in his cloak and pressed close into the cushion. The carriage
jolted; Lavretsky sat up and opened his eyes wide. On the slope before
him stretched a small hamlet; a little to the right could be seen an
ancient manor house of small size, with closed shutters and a winding
flight of steps; nettles, green and thick as hemp, grew over the wide
courtyard from the very gates; in it stood a storehouse built of oak,
still strong. This was Vassilyevskoe.
The coachman drove to the gates and drew up; Lavretsky’s groom stood
up on the box and as though in preparation for jumping down, shouted,
“Hey!” There was a sleepy, muffled sound of barking, but not even a dog
made its appearance; the groom again made ready for a jump, and again
shouted “Hey!” The feeble barking was repeated, and an instant after
a man from some unseen quarter ran into the courtyard, dressed in a
nankeen coat, his head as white as snow; he stared at the coach, shading
his eyes from the sun; all at once he slapped his thighs with both
hands, ran to and fro a little, then rushed to open the gates. The coach
drove into the yard, crushing the nettles with the wheels, and drew up
at the steps. The white-headed man, who seemed very alert, was already
standing on the bottom step, his legs bent and wide apart, he unfastened
the apron of the carriage, holding back the strap with a jerk and aiding
his master to alight; he kissed his hand.
“How do you do, how do you do, brother?” began Lavretsky. “Your name’s
Anton, I think? You are still alive, then?” The old man bowed without
speaking, and ran off for the keys. While he went, the coachman sat
motionless, sitting sideways and staring at the closed door, but
Lavretsky’s groom stood as he had leaped down in a picturesque pose with
one arm thrown back on the box. The old man brought the keys, and, quite
needlessly, twisting about like a snake, with his elbows raised high, he
opened the door, stood on one side, and again bowed to the earth.
“So here I am at home, here I am back again,” thought Lavretsky, as he
walked into the diminutive passage, while one after another the shutters
were being opened with much creaking and knocking, and the light of day
poured into the deserted rooms.