Two days later, Marya Dmitrievna arrived with all her young people at
Vasilievskoe, in accordance with her promise. The little girls
immediately ran out into the garden, while Marya Dmitrievna languidly
traversed the rooms, and languidly praised everything. Her visit to
Lavretzky she regarded as a token of great condescension, almost in the
light of a good deed. She smiled affably when Anton and Apraxyeya, after
the ancient custom of house-serfs, came to kiss her hand,--and in an
enervated voice, through her nose, she asked them to give her some tea. To
the great vexation of Anton, who had donned white knitted gloves, the
newly-arrived lady was served with tea not by him, but by Lavretzky's
hired valet, who, according to the assertion of the old man, knew nothing
whatever about proper forms. On the other hand, Anton reasserted his
rights at dinner: firm as a post he stood behind Marya Dmitrievna's
chair--and yielded his place to no one. The long-unprecedented arrival of
visitors at Vasilievskoe both agitated and rejoiced the old man: it
pleased him to see, that his master knew nice people. However, he was not
the only one who was excited on that day: Lemm, also, was excited. He put
on a short, snuff-coloured frock-coat, with a sharp-pointed collar, bound
his neckerchief tightly, and incessantly coughed and stepped aside, with
an agreeable and courteous mien. Lavretzky noted, with satisfaction, that
the close relations between himself and Liza still continued: no sooner
did she enter, than she offered him her hand, in friendly wise. After
dinner, Lemm drew forth, from the back pocket of his coat, into which he
had been constantly thrusting his hand, a small roll of music, and pursing
up his lips, he silently laid it on the piano. It was a romance, which he
had composed on the preceding day to old-fashioned German words, in which
the stars were alluded to. Liza immediately seated herself at the piano
and began to decipher the romance.... Alas, the music turned out to be
complicated, and disagreeably strained; it was obvious that the composer
had attempted to express some passionate, profound sentiment, but nothing
had come of it: so the attempt remained merely an attempt. Lavretzky and
Liza both felt this,--and Lemm understood it: he said not a word, put his
romance back in his pocket, and in reply to Liza's proposal to play it
over again, he merely said significantly, with a shake of his head:
"Enough--for the present!"--bent his shoulders, shrank together, and left
the room.
Toward evening, they all went fishing together. The pond beyond the
garden contained a quantity of carp and loach. They placed Marya
Dmitrievna in an arm-chair near the bank, in the shade, spread a rug
under her feet, and gave her the best hook; Anton, in the quality of an
old and expert fisherman, offered his services. He assiduously spitted
worms on the hook, slapped them down with his hand, spat on them, and
even himself flung the line and hook, bending forward with his whole
body. That same day, Marya Dmitrievna expressed herself to Feodor
Ivanitch, with regard to him, in the following phrase, in the French
language of girls' institutes: "_Il n'y a plus maintenant de ces gens
comme ca comme autrefois._" Lemm, with the two little girls, went
further away, to the dam; Lavretzky placed himself beside Liza. The fish
bit incessantly, the carp which were caught were constantly flashing
their sides, now gold, now silver, in the air; the joyous exclamations of
the little girls were unceasing; Marya Dmitrievna herself gave vent to
a couple of shrill, feminine shrieks. Lavretzky and Liza caught fewer
than the others; this, probably, resulted from the fact that they paid
less attention than the rest to their fishing, and allowed their floats
to drift close inshore. The tall, reddish reeds rustled softly around
them, in front of them the motionless water gleamed softly, and their
conversation was soft also. Liza stood on a small raft; Lavretzky sat on
the inclined trunk of a willow; Liza wore a white gown, girt about the
waist with a broad ribbon, also white in hue; her straw hat was hanging
from one hand, with the other, she supported, with some effort, the
curved fishing-rod. Lavretzky gazed at the pure, rather severe profile,
at her hair tucked behind her ears, at her soft cheeks, which were as
sunburned as those of a child,--and said to himself: "O how charmingly
thou standest on my pond!" Liza did not turn toward him, but stared at
the water,--and half smiled, half screwed up her eyes. The shadow of a
linden-tree near at hand fell upon both of them.
"Do you know,"--began Lavretzky:--"I have been thinking a great deal
about my last conversation with you, and have come to the conclusion,
that you are extraordinarily kind."
"I did not mean it in that way at all ..." Liza began,--and was overcome
with shame.
"You are kind,"--repeated Lavretzky. "I am a rough man, but I feel that
every one must love you. There's Lemm now, for example: he is simply in
love with you."
Liza's brows quivered, rather than contracted; this always happened with
her when she heard something disagreeable.
"I felt very sorry for him to-day,"--Lavretzky resumed:--"with his
unsuccessful romance. To be young, and be able to do a thing--that can be
borne; but to grow old, and not have the power--is painful. And the
offensive thing about it is, that you are not conscious when your powers
begin to wane. It is difficult for an old man to endure these shocks!...
Look out, the fish are biting at your hook.... They say,"--added
Lavretzky, after a brief pause,--"that Vladimir Nikolaitch has written
a very pretty romance."
"Yes,"--replied Liza;--"it is a trifle, but it is not bad."
"And what is your opinion,"--asked Lavretzky:--"is he a good musician?"
"It seems to me that he has great talent for music; but up to the present
time he has not cultivated it as he should."
"Exactly. And is he a nice man?"
Liza laughed, and cast a quick glance at Feodor Ivanitch.
"What a strange question!"--she exclaimed, drawing up her hook, and
flinging it far out again.
"Why is it strange?--I am asking you about him as a man who has recently
come hither, as your relative."
"As a relative?"
"Yes. I believe I am a sort of uncle to you."
"Vladimir Nikolaitch has a kind heart,"--said Liza:--"he is clever;
mamma is very fond of him."
"And do you like him?"
"He is a nice man: why should not I like him?"
"Ah!"--said Lavretzky, and relapsed into silence. A half-mournful,
half-sneering expression flitted across his face. His tenacious gaze
discomfited Liza, but she continued to smile. "Well, God grant them
happiness!"--he muttered, at last, as though to himself, and turned away
his head.
Liza blushed.
"You are mistaken, Feodor Ivanitch,"--she said:--"there is no cause for
your thinking.... But do not you like Vladimir Nikolaitch?"
"I do not."
"Why?"
"It seems to me, that he has no heart."
The smile vanished from Liza's face.
"You have become accustomed to judge people harshly,"--she said, after a
long silence.
"I think not. What right have I to judge others harshly, when I myself
stand in need of indulgence? Or have you forgotten that a lazy man is the
only one who does not laugh at me?... Well,"--he added:--"and have you
kept your promise?"
"What promise?"
"Have you prayed for me?"
"Yes, I have prayed, and I do pray for you every day. But please do not
speak lightly of that."
Lavretzky began to assure Liza, that such a thing had never entered his
head, that he entertained a profound respect for all convictions; then he
entered upon a discussion of religion, its significance in the history of
mankind, the significance of Christianity....
"One must be a Christian,"--said Liza, not without a certain
effort:--"not in order to understand heavenly things ... yonder ...
earthly things, but because every man must die."
Lavretzky, with involuntary surprise, raised his eyes to Liza's, and
encountered her glance.
"What a word you have uttered!"--said he.
"The word is not mine,"--she replied.
"It is not yours.... But why do you speak of death?"
"I do not know. I often think about it."
"Often?"
"Yes."
"One would not say so, to look at you now: you have such a merry, bright
face, you are smiling...."
"Yes, I am very merry now,"--returned Liza ingenuously.
Lavretzky felt like seizing both her hands, and clasping them tightly.
"Liza, Liza!"--called Marya Dmitrievna,--"come hither, look! What a
carp I have caught!"
"Immediately, _maman_,"--replied Liza, and went to her, but Lavretzky
remained on his willow-tree.
"I talk with her as though I were not a man whose life is finished," he
said to himself. As she departed, Liza had hung her hat on a bough; with
a strange, almost tender sentiment, Lavretzky gazed at the hat, at its
long, rather crumpled ribbons. Liza speedily returned to him, and again
took up her stand on the raft.
"Why do you think that Vladimir Nikolaitch has no heart?"--she
inquired, a few moments later.
"I have already told you, that I may be mistaken; however, time will
show."
Liza became thoughtful. Lavretzky began to talk about his manner of life
at Vasilievskoe, about Mikhalevitch, about Anton; he felt impelled to
talk to Liza, to communicate to her everything that occurred to his soul:
she was so charming, she listened to him so attentively; her infrequent
comments and replies seemed to him so simple and wise. He even told her
so.
Liza was amazed.
"Really?"--she said;--"why, I have always thought that I, like my maid
Nastya, had no words of my own. One day she said to her betrothed: 'Thou
must find it tiresome with me; thou always sayest such fine things to me,
but I have no words of my own.'"
"And thank God for that!" thought Lavretzky.