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.