Lisa had not uttered a word in the course of the dispute between
Lavretsky and Panshin, but she had followed it attentively and was
completely on Lavretsky’s side. Politics interested her very little; but
the supercilious tone of the worldly official (he had never delivered
himself in that way before) repelled her; his contempt for Russia
wounded her. It had never occurred to Lisa that she was a patriot;
but her heart was with the Russian people; the Russian turn of mind
delighted her; she would talk for hours together without ceremony to the
peasant-overseer of her mother’s property when he came to the town, and
she talked to him as to an equal, without any of the condescension of a
superior. Lavretsky felt all this; he would not have troubled himself to
answer Panshin by himself; he had spoken only for Lisa’s sake. They had
said nothing to one another, their eyes even had seldom met. But they
both knew that they had grown closer that evening, they knew that
they liked and disliked the same things. On one point only were they
divided; but Lisa secretly hoped to bring him to God. They sat near
Marfa Timofyevna, and appeared to be following her play; indeed, they
were really following it, but meanwhile their hearts were full, and
nothing was lost on them; for them the nightingale sang, and the stars
shone, and the trees gently murmured, lulled to sleep by the summer
warmth and softness. Lavretsky was completely carried away, and
surrendered himself wholly to his passion--and rejoiced in it. But no
word can express what was passing in the pure heart of the young girl.
It was a mystery for herself. Let it remain a mystery for all. No one
knows, no one has seen, nor will ever see, how the grain, destined to
life and growth, swells and ripens in the bosom of the earth.
Ten o’clock struck. Marfa Timofyevna went off up-stairs to her own
apartments with Nastasya Karpovna. Lavretsky and Lisa walked across the
room, stopped at the open door into the garden, looked into the darkness
in the distance and then at one another, and smiled. They could have
taken each other’s hands, it seemed, and talked to their hearts’
content. They returned to Marya Dmitrievna and Panshin, where a game of
picquet was still dragging on. The last king was called at last, and
the lady of the house rose, sighing and groaning from her well-cushioned
easy chair. Panshin took his hat, kissed Marya Dmitrievna’s hand,
remarking that nothing hindered some happy people now from sleeping,
but that he had to sit up over stupid papers till morning, and departed,
bowing coldly to Lisa (he had not expected that she would ask him to
wait so long for an answer to his offer, and he was cross with her for
it). Lavretsky followed him. They parted at the gate. Panshin waked
his coachman by poking him in the neck with the end of his stick, took
his seat in the carriage and rolled away. Lavretsky did not want to go
home. He walked away from the town into the open country. The night was
still and clear, though there was no moon. Lavretsky rambled a long time
over the dewy grass. He came across a little narrow path; and went along
it. It led him up to a long fence, and to a little gate; he tried, not
knowing why, to push it open. With a faint creak the gate opened, as
though it had been waiting the touch of his hand. Lavretsky went into
the garden. After a few paces along a walk of lime-trees he stopped
short in amazement; he recognised the Kalitins’ garden.
He moved at once into a black patch of shade thrown by a thick clump of
hazels, and stood a long while without moving, shrugging his shoulders
in astonishment.
“This cannot be for nothing,” he thought.
All was hushed around. From the direction of the house not a sound
reached him. He went cautiously forward. At the bend of an avenue
suddenly the whole house confronted him with its dark face; in two
upstair-windows only a light was shining. In Lisa’s room behind the
white curtain a candle was burning, and in Marfa Timofyevna’s bedroom a
lamp shone with red-fire before the holy picture, and was reflected with
equal brilliance on the gold frame. Below, the door on to the balcony
gaped wide open. Lavretsky sat down on a wooden garden-seat, leaned on
his elbow, and began to watch this door and Lisa’s window. In the town
it struck midnight; a little clock in the house shrilly clanged
out twelve; the watchman beat it with jerky strokes upon his board.
Lavretsky had no thought, no expectation; it was sweet to him to feel
himself near Lisa, to sit in her garden on the seat where she herself
had sat more than once.
The light in Lisa’s room vanished.
“Sleep well, my sweet girl,” whispered Lavretsky, still sitting
motionless, his eyes fixed on the darkened window.
Suddenly the light appeared in one of the windows of the ground-floor,
then changed into another, and a third.... Some one was walking through
the rooms with a candle. “Can it be Lisa? It cannot be.” Lavretsky got
up.... He caught a glimpse of a well-known face--Lisa came into
the drawing-room. In a white gown, her plaits hanging loose on her
shoulders, she went quietly up to the table, bent over it, put down the
candle, and began looking for something. Then turning round facing the
garden, she drew near the open door, and stood on the threshold, a light
slender figure all in white. A shiver passed over Lavretsky.
“Lisa!” broke hardly audibly from his lips.
She started and began to gaze into the darkness.
“Lisa!” Lavretsky repeated louder, and he came out of the shadow of the
avenue.
Lisa raised her head in alarm, and shrank back. She had recognised him.
He called to her a third time, and stretched out his hands to her. She
came away from the door and stepped into the garden.
“Is it you?” she said. “You here?”
“I--I--listen to me,” whispered Lavretsky, and seizing her hand he led
her to the seat.
She followed him without resistance, her pale face, her fixed eyes, and
all her gestures expressed an unutterable bewilderment. Lavretsky made
her sit down and stood before her.
“I did not mean to come here,” he began. “Something brought me.... I--I
love you,” he uttered in involuntary terror.
Lisa slowly looked at him. It seemed as though she only at that instant
knew where she was and what was happening. She tried to get up, she
could not, and she covered her face with her hands.
“Lisa,” murmured Lavretsky. “Lisa,” he repeated, and fell at her feet.
Her shoulders began to heave slightly; the fingers of her pale hands
were pressed more closely to her face.
“What is it?” Lavretsky urged, and he heard a subdued sob. His heart
stood still.... He knew the meaning of those tears. “Can it be that you
love me?” he whispered, and caressed her knees.
“Get up,” he heard her voice, “get up, Fedor Ivanitch. What are we
doing?”
He got up and sat beside her on the seat. She was not weeping now, and
she looked at him steadfastly with her wet eyes.
“It frightens me: what are we doing?” she repeated.
“I love you,” he said again. “I am ready to devote my whole life to
you.”
She shuddered again, as though something had stung her, and lifted her
eyes towards heaven.
“All that is in God’s hands,” she said.
“But you love me, Lisa? We shall be happy.” She dropped her eyes; he
softly drew her to him, and her head sank on to his shoulder.... He bent
his head a little and touched her pale lips.
Half an hour later Lavretsky was standing before the little garden gate.
He found it locked and was obliged to get over the fence. He returned
to the town and walked along the slumbering streets. A sense of immense,
unhoped-for happiness filled his soul; all his doubts had died away.
“Away, dark phantom of the past,” he thought. “She loves me, she will
be mine.” Suddenly it seemed to him that in the air over his head were
floating strains of divine triumphant music. He stood still. The music
resounded in still greater magnificence; a mighty flood of melody--and
all his bliss seemed speaking and singing in its strains. He looked
about him; the music floated down from two upper windows of a small
house.
“Lemm?” cried Lavretsky as he ran to the house. “Lemm! Lemm!” he
repeated aloud.
The sounds died away and the figure of the old man in a dressing-gown,
with his throat bare and his hair dishevelled, appeared at the window.
“Aha!” he said with dignity, “is it you?”
“Christopher Fedoritch, what marvellous music! for mercy’s sake, let me
in.”
Without uttering a word, the old man with a majestic flourish of the arm
dropped the key of the street door from the window.
Lavretsky hastened up-stairs, went into the room and was about to rush
up to Lemm; but the latter imperiously motioned him to a seat, saying
abruptly in Russian, “Sit down and listen,” sat down himself to the
piano, and looking proudly and severely about him, he began to play.
It was long since Lavretsky had listened to anything like it. The sweet
passionate melody went to his heart from the first note; it was glowing
and languishing with inspiration, happiness and beauty; it swelled and
melted away; it touched on all that is precious, mysterious, and holy
on earth. It breathed of deathless sorrow and mounted dying away to the
heavens. Lavretsky drew himself up, and rose cold and pale with ecstasy.
This music seemed to clutch his very soul, so lately shaken by the
rapture of love, the music was glowing with love too. “Again!” he
whispered as the last chord sounded. The old man threw him an eagle
glance, struck his hand on his chest and saying deliberately in his own
tongue, “This is my work, I am a great musician,” he played again his
marvellous composition. There was no candle in the room; the light of
the rising moon fell aslant on the window; the soft air was vibrating
with sound; the poor little room seemed a holy place, and the old man’s
head stood out noble and inspired in the silvery half light. Lavretsky
went up to him and embraced him. At first Lemm did not respond to
his embrace and even pushed him away with his elbow. For a long while
without moving in any limb he kept the same severe, almost morose
expression, and only growled out twice, “aha.” At last his face
relaxed, changed, and grew calmer, and in response to Lavretsky’s warm
congratulations he smiled a little at first, then burst into tears, and
sobbed weakly like a child.
“It is wonderful,” he said, “that you have come just at this moment; but
I know all, I know all.”
“You know all?” Lavretsky repeated in amazement.
“You have heard me,” replied Lemm, “did you not understand that I knew
all?”
Till daybreak Lavretsky could not sleep, all night he was sitting on his
bed. And Lisa too did not sleep; she was praying.