The following day was Sunday. The sound of bells ringing for early mass
did not wake Lavretsky--he had not closed his eyes all night--but it
reminded him of another Sunday, when at Lisa’s desire he had gone to
church. He got up hastily; some secret voice told him that he would
see her there to-day. He went noiselessly out of the house, leaving a
message for Varvara Pavlovna that he would be back to dinner, and with
long strides he made his way in the direction in which the monotonously
mournful bells were calling him. He arrived early; there was scarcely
any one in the church; a deacon was reading the service in the chair;
the measured drone of his voice--sometimes broken by a cough--fell
and rose at even intervals. Lavretsky placed himself not far from the
entrance. Worshippers came in one by one, stopped, crossed themselves,
and bowed in all directions; their steps rang out in the empty, silent
church, echoing back distinctly under the arched roof. An infirm poor
little old woman in a worn-out cloak with a hood was on her knees near
Lavretsky, praying assiduously; her toothless, yellow, wrinkled face
expressed intense emotion; her red eyes were gazing fixedly upwards at
the holy figures on the iconostasis; her bony hand was constantly coming
out from under her cloak, and slowly and earnestly making a great sign
of the cross. A peasant with a bushy beard and a surly face, dishevelled
and unkempt, came into the church, and at once fell on both knees, and
began directly crossing himself in haste, bending back his head with
a shake after each prostration. Such bitter grief was expressed in his
face, and in all his actions, that Lavretsky made up his mind to go
up to him and ask him what was wrong. The peasant timidly and morosely
started back, looked at him.... “My son is dead,” he articulated
quickly, and again fell to bowing to the earth. “What could replace the
consolations of the Church to them?” thought Lavretsky; and he tried
himself to pray, but his heart was hard and heavy, and his thoughts
were far away. He kept expecting Lisa, but Lisa did not come. The church
began to be full of people; but still she was not there. The service
commenced, the deacon had already read the gospel, they began ringing
for the last prayer; Lavretsky moved a little forward--and suddenly
caught sight of Lisa. She had come before him, but he had not seen her;
she was hidden in a recess between the wall and the choir, and neither
moved nor looked round. Lavretsky did not take his eyes off her till the
very end of the service; he was saying farewell to her. The people
began to disperse, but she still remained; it seemed as though she were
waiting for Lavretsky to go out. At last she crossed herself for the
last time and went out--there was only a maid with her--not turning
round. Lavretsky went out of the church after her and overtook her in
the street; she was walking very quickly, with downcast head, and a veil
over her face.
“Good-morning, Lisaveta Mihalovna,” he said aloud with assumed
carelessness: “may I accompany you?”
She made no reply; he walked beside her.
“Are you content with me?” he asked her, dropping his voice. “Have you
heard what happened yesterday?”
“Yes, yes,” she replied in a whisper, “that was well.” And she went
still more quickly.
“Are you content?”
Lisa only bent her head in assent.
“Fedor Ivanitch,” she began in a calm but faint voice, “I wanted to beg
you not to come to see us any more; go away as soon as possible, we may
see each other again later--sometime--in a year. But now, do this for my
sake; fulfil my request, for God’s sake.”
“I am ready to obey you in everything, Lisaveta Mihalovna; but are we
really to part like this? will you not say one word to me?”
“Fedor Ivanitch, you are walking near me now.... But already you are so
far from me. And not only you, but--”
“Speak out, I entreat you!” cried Lavretsky, “what do you mean?”
“You will hear perhaps... but whatever it may be, forget... no, do not
forget; remember me.”
“Me forget you--”
“That’s enough, good-bye. Do not come after me.”
“Lisa!” Lavretsky was beginning.
“Good-bye, good-bye!” she repeated, pulling her veil still lower and
almost running forward. Lavretsky looked after her, and with bowed head,
turned back along the street. He stumbled up against Lemm, who was also
walking along with his eyes on the ground, and his hat pulled down to
his nose.
They looked at one another without speaking.
“Well, what have you to say?” Lavretsky brought out at last.
“What have I to say?” returned Lemm, grimly. “I have nothing to say. All
is dead, and we are dead (Alles ist todt, und wir sind todt). So you’re
going to the right, are you?”
“Yes.”
“And I go to the left. Good-bye.”
The following morning Fedor Ivanitch set off with his wife for Lavriky.
She drove in front in the carriage with Ada and Justine; he behind, in
the coach. The pretty little girl did not move away from the window
the whole journey; she was astonished at everything; the peasants, the
women, the wells, the yokes over the horses’ heads, the bells and the
flocks of crows. Justine shared her wonder. Varvara Pavlovna laughed
at their remarks and exclamations. She was in excellent spirits; before
leaving town, she had come to an explanation with her husband.
“I understand your position,” she said to him, and from the look in
her subtle eyes, he was able to infer that she understood his position
fully, “but you must do me, at least, this justice, that I am easy to
live with; I will not fetter you or hinder you; I wanted to secure Ada’s
future, I want nothing more.”
“Well, you have obtained your object,” observed Fedor Ivanitch.
“I only dream of one thing now: to hide myself for ever in obscurity. I
shall remember your goodness always.”
“Enough of that,” he interrupted.
“And I shall know how to respect your independence and tranquillity,”
she went on, completing the phrases she had prepared.
Lavretsky made her a low bow.
Varvara Pavlovna then believed her husband was thanking her in his
heart.
On the evening of the next day they reached Lavriky; a week later,
Lavretsky set off for Moscow, leaving his wife five thousand roubles for
her household expenses; and the day after Lavretsky’s departure, Panshin
made his appearance. Varvara Pavlovna had begged him not to forget her
in her solitude. She gave him the best possible reception, and, till a
late hour of the night, the lofty apartments of the house and even the
garden re-echoed with the sound of music, singing, and lively French
talk. For three days Varvara Pavlovna entertained Panshin; when he took
leave of her, warmly pressing her lovely hands, he promised to come back
very soon--and he kept his word.