For more than two hours Lavretzky roamed about the streets of the town.
The night which he had spent in the suburbs of Paris recurred to his
mind. His heart swelled to bursting within him, and in his head, which
was empty, and, as it were, stunned, the same set of thoughts kept
swirling,--dark, wrathful, evil thoughts. "She is alive, she is here," he
whispered, with constantly augmenting amazement. He felt that he had lost
Liza. Bile choked him; this blow had struck him too suddenly. How could
he so lightly have believed the absurd gossip of a feuilleton, a scrap of
paper? "Well, and if I had not believed it, what difference would that
have made? I should not have known that Liza loves me; she herself would
not have known it." He could not banish from himself the form, the voice,
the glances of his wife ... and he cursed himself, cursed everything in
the world.
Worn out, he arrived toward morning at Lemm's. For a long time, he could
produce no effect with his knocking; at last, the old man's head, in a
nightcap, made its appearance in the window, sour, wrinkled, no longer
bearing the slightest resemblance to that inspiredly-morose head which,
four and twenty hours previously, had gazed on Lavretzky from the full
height of its artistic majesty.
"What do you want?"--inquired Lemm:--"I cannot play every night; I have
taken a decoction."--But, evidently, Lavretzky's face was very strange:
the old man made a shield for his eyes out of his hands, stared at his
nocturnal visitor, and admitted him.
Lavretzky entered the room, and sank down on a chair; the old man halted
in front of him, with the skirts of his motley-hued, old dressing-gown
tucked up, writhing and mumbling with his lips.
"My wife has arrived,"--said Lavretzky, raising his head, and suddenly
breaking into an involuntary laugh.
Lemm's face expressed surprise, but he did not even smile, and only
wrapped himself more closely in his dressing-gown.
"You see, you do not know,"--went on Lavretzky:--"I imagined ... I read
in a newspaper, that she was no longer alive."
"O--o, you read that a short time ago?"--asked Lemm.
"Yes."
"O--o,"--repeated the old man, and elevated his eyebrows.--"And she has
arrived?"
"Yes. She is now at my house; but I ... I am an unhappy man."
And again he broke into a laugh.
"You are an unhappy man,"--repeated Lemm, slowly.
"Christofor Feodoritch,"--began Lavretzky:--"will you undertake to
deliver a note?"
"H'm. May I inquire, to whom?"
"To Liza...."
"Ah,--yes, yes, I understand. Very well. But when must the note be
delivered?"
"To-morrow, as early as possible."
"H'm. I can send Katrina, my cook. No, I will go myself."
"And will you bring me the answer?"
"Yes, I will."
Lemm sighed.
"Yes, my poor young friend; you really are--an unhappy man."
Lavretzky wrote a couple of words to Liza: he informed her of his wife's
arrival, begged her to appoint a meeting,--and flung himself on the
narrow divan, face to the wall; and the old man lay down on the bed, and
tossed about for a long time, coughing and taking sips of his decoction.
Morning came: they both rose. With strange eyes they gazed at each other.
Lavretzky wanted to kill himself at that moment. The cook, Katrina,
brought them some bad coffee. The clock struck eight. Lemm put on his
hat, and saying that he had a lesson to give at the Kalitins' at nine,
but that he would find a decent pretext, set out. Lavretzky again flung
himself on the little couch, and again, from the depths of his soul, a
sorrowful laugh welled up. He thought of how his wife had driven him out
of his house; he pictured to himself Liza's position, closed his eyes,
and threw his hands behind his head. At last Lemm returned, and brought
him a scrap of paper, on which Liza had scrawled with pencil the
following words: "We cannot see each other to-day; perhaps--to-morrow
evening. Farewell." Lavretzky quietly and abstractedly thanked Lemm, and
went to his own house.
He found his wife at breakfast; Ada, all curls, in a white frock with
blue ribbons, was eating a mutton chop. Varvara Pavlovna immediately
rose, as soon as Lavretzky entered the room, and approached him, with
humility depicted on her face. He requested her to follow him to his
study, locked the door behind him, and began to stride to and fro; she
sat down, laid one hand modestly on the other, and began to watch him
with her still beautiful, although slightly painted eyes.
For a long time Lavretzky did not speak: he felt that he could not
control himself; he perceived clearly, that Varvara Pavlovna was not in
the least afraid of him, but was assuming the air of being on the very
verge of falling into a swoon.
"Listen, madam,"--he began, at last, breathing heavily at times, grinding
his teeth:--"there is no necessity for our dissembling with each other; I
do not believe in your repentance; and even if it were genuine, it is
impossible for me to become reconciled to you, to live with you again."
Varvara Pavlovna compressed her lips and narrowed her eyes. "This is
disgust,"--she thought:--"of course! I am no longer even a woman to him."
"It is impossible,"--repeated Lavretzky, and buttoned up his coat to the
throat.--"I do not know why you have taken it into your head to come
hither: probably, you have no money left."
"Alas! you are insulting me,"--whispered Varvara Pavlovna.
"However that may be,--you are, unhappily, my wife, nevertheless. I
cannot turn you out ... and this is what I have to propose to you. You
may set out, this very day, if you like, for Lavriki, and live there;
the house is good, as you know; you will receive all that is necessary,
in addition to your allowance.... Do you agree?"
Varvara Pavlovna raised her embroidered handkerchief to her eyes.
"I have already told you,"--she said, her lips twitching nervously:--"that
I shall agree to anything whatever you may see fit to do with me: on this
occasion, nothing is left for me to do, except to ask you: will you permit
me, at least, to thank you for your magnanimity?"
"No gratitude, I beg of you; it is better so,"--hastily returned
Lavretzky.--"Accordingly,"--he went on, approaching the door:--"I may
count upon...."
"To-morrow I shall be at Lavriki,"--said Varvara Pavlovna, respectfully
rising from her seat.--"But, Feodor Ivanitch" (she no longer called him
Theodore)....
"What do you want?"
"I know that I have, as yet, in no way earned my forgiveness; may I hope,
at least, in time...."
"Ekh, Varvara Pavlovna,"--Lavretzky interrupted her:--"you are a
clever woman, and as I am not a fool, I know that that is quite
unnecessary for you. And I forgave you long ago; but there was always a
gulf between us."
"I shall know how to submit,"--replied Varvara Pavlovna, and bowed her
head. "I have not forgotten my fault; I should not be surprised to learn
that you were even delighted at the news of my death,"--she added gently,
pointing slightly with her hand at the copy of the newspaper which lay on
the table, forgotten by Lavretzky.
Feodor Ivanitch shuddered: the feuilleton was marked with a pencil.
Varvara Pavlovna gazed at him with still greater humility. She was very
pretty at that moment. Her grey Paris gown gracefully clothed her willowy
form, which was almost that of a girl of seventeen; her slender, delicate
neck encircled with a white collar, her bosom which rose and fell evenly,
her arms devoid of bracelets and rings,--her whole figure, from her
shining hair to the tip of her barely revealed little boot, was so
elegant....
Lavretzky swept an angry glance over her, came near exclaiming: "Brava!"
came near smiting her in the temple with his fist--and left the room. An
hour later, he had already set out for Vasilievskoe, and two hours
later, Varvara Pavlovna gave orders that the best carriage in town
should be engaged, donned a simple straw hat with a black veil, and a
modest mantle, entrusted Ada to Justine, and set out for the Kalitins:
from the inquiries instituted by her servant she had learned that her
husband was in the habit of going to them every day.