Four hours later, he was driving homeward. His tarantas rolled swiftly
along the soft country road. There had been a drought for a fortnight; a
thin milky cloud was diffused through the air, and veiled the distant
forests; it reeked with the odour of burning. A multitude of small, dark
cloudlets, with indistinctly delineated edges, were creeping across the
pale-blue sky; a fairly strong wind was whisking along in a dry,
uninterrupted stream, without dispelling the sultriness. Leaning his head
against a cushion, and folding his arms on his breast, Lavretzky gazed
at the strips of ploughed land, in fan-shape, which flew past, at the
willow-trees slowly flitting by, at the stupid crows and daws gazing with
dull suspicion askance at the passing equipage, at the long strips of
turf between the cultivated sections, overgrown with artemisia, wormwood,
and wild tansy; he gazed ... and that fresh, fertile nakedness and
wildness of the steppe, that verdure, those long hillocks, the ravines
with stubby oak bushes, the grey hamlets, the flexible birch-trees,--this
whole Russian picture, which he had not seen for a long time, wafted into
his soul sweet and, at the same time, painful sensations, weighed on his
breast with a certain agreeable oppression. His thoughts slowly roved
about; their outlines were as indistinct and confused as the outlines of
those lofty cloudlets, which, also, seemed to be roving. He recalled his
childhood, his mother; he remembered how she died, how they had carried
him to her, and how she, pressing his head to her bosom, had begun to
sing feebly over him, but had cast a glance at Glafira Petrovna--and
had relapsed into silence. He recalled his father, at first alert,
dissatisfied with every one, and with a brazen voice,--then blind,
tearful, and with a dirty grey beard; he recalled how, one day, at table,
after drinking an extra glass of wine, and spilling the sauce over his
napkin, he had suddenly burst out laughing, and had begun, winking his
sightless eyes and flushing crimson, to tell stories of his conquests; he
recalled Varvara Pavlovna,--and involuntarily screwed up his eyes, as a
man does from momentary inward pain, and shook his head. Then his
thoughts came to a pause on Liza.
"Here," he thought, "is a new being, who is only just entering upon life.
A splendid young girl, what will become of her? She is comely. A pale,
fresh face, such serious eyes and lips, and an honest and innocent gaze.
It is a pity that she seems to be somewhat enthusiastic. A splendid
figure, and she walks so lightly, and her voice is soft. I greatly like
to see her pause suddenly, listen attentively, without a smile, and then
meditate, and toss back her hair. Really, it strikes me that Panshin is
not worthy of her. But what is there wrong about him? She will traverse
the road which all traverse. I had better take a nap." And Lavretzky
closed his eyes.
He could not get to sleep, but plunged into the dreamy stupor of the
road. Images of the past, as before, arose in leisurely fashion, floated
through his soul, mingling and entangling themselves with other scenes.
Lavretzky, God knows why, began to think about Robert Peel ... about
French history ... about how he would win a battle if he were a general;
he thought he heard shots and shrieks.... His head sank to one side, he
opened his eyes.... The same fields, the same views of the steppe; the
polished shoes of the trace-horse flashed in turn through the billowing
dust; the shirt of the postilion, yellow, with red gussets at the
armpits, puffed out in the wind.... "A pretty way to return to my native
land"--flashed through Lavretzky's head; and he shouted: "Faster!"
wrapped himself up in his cloak, and leaned back harder against his
pillow. The tarantas gave a jolt: Lavretzky sat upright, and opened his
eyes wide. Before him, on a hillock, a tiny hamlet lay outspread; a
little to the right, a small, ancient manor-house was to be seen, with
closed shutters and a crooked porch; all over the spacious yard, from the
very gates, grew nettles, green and thick as hemp; there, also, stood a
small oaken store-house, still sound. This was Vasilievskoe.
The postilion turned up to the gate, and brought the horses to a
standstill; Lavretzky's footman rose on the box, and, as though
preparing to spring down, shouted: "Hey!" A hoarse, dull barking rang
out, but not even the dog showed himself; the lackey again prepared to
leap down, and again shouted: "Hey!" The decrepit barking was renewed,
and, a moment later, a man ran out into the yard, no one could tell
whence,--a man in a nankeen kaftan, with a head as white as snow;
shielding his eyes with his hand, he stared at the tarantas, suddenly
slapped himself on both thighs, at first danced about a little on one
spot, then ran to open the gate. The tarantas drove into the yard, the
wheels rustling against the nettles, and halted in front of the porch.
The white-headed man, very nimble, to all appearances, was already
standing, with his feet planted very wide apart and very crooked, on the
last step; and having unbuttoned the apron, convulsively held up the
leather and aided the master to descend to the earth, and then kissed his
hand.
"Good-day, good-day, brother,"--said Lavretzky,--"I think thy name is
Anton? Thou art still alive?"
The old man bowed in silence, and ran to fetch the keys. While he was
gone, the postilion sat motionless, bending sideways and gazing at the
locked door; but Lavretzky's lackey remained standing as he had sprung
down, in a picturesque pose, with one hand resting on the box. The old
man brought the keys, and quite unnecessarily writhing like a serpent,
raising his elbows on high, he unlocked the door, stepped aside, and
again bowed to his girdle.
"Here I am at home, here I have got back,"--said Lavretzky to himself,
as he entered the tiny anteroom, while the shutters were opened, one
after the other, with a bang and a squeak, and the daylight penetrated
into the deserted rooms.