At twelve o'clock on the following day, Lavretzky set out for the
Kalitins'. On the way thither, he met Panshin, who galloped past him on
horseback, with his hat pulled down to his very eyebrows. At the
Kalitins', Lavretzky was not admitted,--for the first time since he had
known them. Marya Dmitrievna was "lying down,"--so the lackey
announced; "they" had a headache. Neither Marfa Timofeevna nor
Lizaveta Mikhailovna was at home. Lavretzky strolled along the garden,
in anxious hope of meeting Liza, but saw no one. He returned a couple of
hours later, and received the same answer, in connection with which the
lackey bestowed a sidelong glance upon him. It seemed to Lavretzky
impolite to intrude himself upon them for a third time that day--and he
decided to drive out to Vasilievskoe, where, without reference to this,
he had business to attend to. On the way he constructed various plans,
each more beautiful than the other; but in his aunt's hamlet, sadness
fell upon him; he entered into conversation with Anton; the old man, as
though expressly, had nothing but cheerless thoughts in his mind. He
narrated to Lavretzky, how Glafira Petrovna, before her death, had
bitten her own hand,--and, after a short pause, he added: "Every man,
master--dear little father, is given to devouring himself." It was
already late when Lavretzky set out on the return journey. The sounds of
the preceding day took possession of him, the image of Liza arose in his
soul in all its gentle transparency; he melted at the thought that she
loved him,--and drove up to his little town-house in a composed and happy
frame of mind.
The first thing which struck him on entering the anteroom was the scent
of patchouli, which was very repulsive to him; several tall trunks and
coffers were standing there. The face of the valet who ran forth to
receive him seemed to him strange. Without accounting to himself for his
impressions, he crossed the threshold of the drawing-room.... From the
couch there rose to greet him a lady in a black gown with flounces, and
raising a batiste handkerchief to her pale face, she advanced several
paces, bent her carefully-dressed head,--and fell at his feet.... Then
only did he recognise her: the lady was--his wife.
It took his breath away.... He leaned against the wall.
"Theodore, do not drive me away!"--she said in French, and her voice cut
his heart like a knife.
He glanced at her without comprehending, yet he immediately noticed that
she had grown pale and thin.
"Theodore,"--she went on, from time to time raising her eyes, and
cautiously wringing her wondrously-beautiful fingers, with rosy, polished
nails:--"Theodore, I am to blame toward you, deeply to blame,--I will say
more, I am a criminal; but do you listen to me; repentance tortures me, I
have become a burden to myself, I could not longer endure my position;
how many times have I meditated returning to you, but I feared your
wrath;--I have decided to break every connection with the past ... _puis,
j'ai ete si malade_,--I have been so ill,"--she added, and passed her
hand across her brow and her cheek,--"I have taken advantage of the
rumour of my death which had got into circulation, I have abandoned
everything; without halting, day and night I have hastened hither; I have
hesitated, for a long time, to present myself before you, my
judge--_paraitre devant vous, mon juge_,--but, at last, I made up my
mind, remembering your invariable kindness, to come to you; I learned
your address in Moscow. Believe me," she continued, softly rising from
the floor, and seating herself on the very edge of an arm-chair:--"I have
often meditated death, and I would have summoned up sufficient courage to
take my life--akh, life is now an intolerable burden to me!--but the
thought of my daughter, of my Adotchka, held me back; she is here, she
is asleep in the adjoining room, poor child! She is weary,--you shall see
her: she, at least, is not guilty toward you,--and I am so unhappy, so
unhappy!"--exclaimed Mme. Lavretzky, and burst into tears.
Lavretzky came to himself, at last; he separated himself from the wall,
and moved toward the door.
"You are going away?"--said his wife, in despair:--"oh, this is
cruel!--Without saying one word to me, without even one reproach.... This
scorn is killing me, this is terrible!"
Lavretzky stopped short.
"What is it that you wish to hear from me?"--he uttered, in a toneless
voice.
"Nothing, nothing,"--she caught him up with vivacity:--"I know that I
have no right to demand anything;--I am not a fool, believe me;--I do not
hope, I do not dare to hope for your forgiveness;--I only venture to
entreat you, that you will give me directions what I am to do, where I am
to live?--I will fulfil your command, whatever it may be, like a slave."
"I have no commands to give you,"--returned Lavretzky, in the same
voice:--"you know, that everything is at an end between us ... and now
more than ever.--You may live where you see fit;--and if your allowance
is insufficient...."
"Akh, do not utter such dreadful words,"--Varvara Pavlovna interrupted
him:--"spare me, if only ... if only for the sake of that angel...." And,
as she said these words, Varvara Pavlovna flew headlong into the next
room, and immediately returned with a tiny, very elegantly dressed little
girl in her arms. Heavy, ruddy-gold curls fell over her pretty, rosy
little face, over her large, black, sleepy eyes; she smiled, and blinked
at the light, and clung with her chubby hand to her mother's neck.
"_Ada, vois, c'est ton pere_,"--said Varvara Pavlovna, pushing the
curls aside from her eyes, and giving her a hearty kiss:--"_prie le avec
moi_."
"_C'est ca, papa?_"--lisped the little girl, brokenly.
"_Oui, mon enfant, n'est ce pas, que tu l'aimes?_"
But this was too much for Lavretzky.
"In what melodrama is it that there is precisely such a scene?"--he
muttered, and left the room.
Varvara Pavlovna stood for a while rooted to the spot, slightly
shrugged her shoulders, carried the little girl into the other room,
undressed her, and put her to bed. Then she got a book, sat down near the
lamp, waited for about an hour, and, at last, lay down on the bed
herself.
"_Eh bien, madame?_"--inquired her maid, a Frenchwoman, whom she had
brought from Paris, as she removed her corsets.
"_Eh bien, Justine_,"--she replied;--"he has aged greatly, but it strikes
me that he is as good-natured as ever.--Give me my gloves for the night,
prepare my high-necked grey gown for to-morrow; and do not forget the
mutton chops for Ada.... Really, it will be difficult to obtain them
here; but we must make the effort."
"_A la guerre, comme a la guerre_,"--responded Justine, and put out the
light.