The day of the arrival of Lavretsky’s wife at the town of O-----, a
sorrowful day for him, had been also a day of misery for Lisa. She had
not had time to go down-stairs and say good-morning to her mother, when
the tramp of hoofs was heard under the window, and with a secret dismay
she saw Panshin riding into the courtyard. “He has come so early for a
final explanation,” she thought, and she was not mistaken. After a turn
in the drawing-room, he suggested that she should go with him into the
garden, and then asked her for the decision of his fate. Lisa summoned
up all her courage and told him that she could not be his wife. He heard
her to the end, standing on one side of her and pulling his hat down
over his forehead; courteously, but in a changed voice, he asked her,
“Was this her last word, and had he given her any ground for such a
change in her views?”--then pressed his hand to his eyes, sighed softly
and abruptly, and took his hand away from his face again.
“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 mère vous appelle; adieu à 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.