The next day was Sunday. The chiming of the bells for the early Liturgy
did not awaken Lavretzky--he had not closed an eye all night long--but it
did remind him of another Sunday, when, at the wish of Liza, he had gone
to church. He hastily rose; a certain secret voice told him that he would
see her there again to-day. He noiselessly quitted the house, ordered
Varvara Pavlovna to be informed that he would return to dinner, and with
great strides wended his way thither, whither the monotonously-mournful
chiming summoned him. He arrived early: there was hardly any one in the
church; a chanter in the choir was reading the Hours; his voice,
occasionally broken by a cough, boomed on in measured cadence, now rising,
now falling. Lavretzky took up his stand not far from the entrance. The
prayerfully inclined arrived one by one, paused, crossed themselves, bowed
on all sides; their footsteps resounded in the emptiness and silence,
distinctly re-echoing from the arches overhead. A decrepit little old
woman, in an ancient hooded cloak, knelt down beside Lavretzky, and began
to pray assiduously; her yellow, toothless, wrinkled face expressed
intense emotion; her red eyes gazed fixedly upward at the holy picture on
the ikonostasis; her bony hand kept incessantly emerging from under her
cloak, and slowly but vigorously made a great, sweeping sign of the cross.
A peasant, with a thick beard and a surly face, tousled and dishevelled,
entered the church, went down at once on both knees, and immediately set
to crossing himself, hastily flinging back his head and shaking it after
every prostration. Such bitter woe was depicted on his countenance, and in
all his movements, that Lavretzky made up his mind to approach and ask
him what was the matter. The peasant started back timidly and roughly, and
looked at him.... "My son is dead,"--he said, in hasty accents--and again
began to prostrate himself to the floor. "What can take the place, for
them, of the consolation of the church?"--Lavretzky thought,--and tried
to pray himself; but his heart had grown heavy and hard, and his thoughts
were far away. He was still expecting Liza--but Liza did not come. The
church began to fill with people; still she did not come. The Liturgy
began, the deacon had already read the Gospel, the bell had pealed for the
hymn "Worthy"; Lavretzky moved a little,--and suddenly caught sight of
Liza. She had arrived before him, but he had not descried her; crowded
into the space between the wall and the choir, she neither glanced around
nor moved. Lavretzky did not take his eyes from her until the very end of
the Liturgy: he was bidding her farewell. The congregation began to
disperse, but she still stood on; she seemed to be awaiting Lavretzky's
departure. At last, she crossed herself for the last time, and went away,
without looking round; she had only a maid with her. Lavretzky followed
her out of the church, and overtook her in the street; she was walking
very rapidly, with her head bowed and her veil lowered over her face.
"Good morning, Lizaveta Mikhailovna,"--said he, loudly, with forced
ease:--"may I accompany you?"
She said nothing; he walked along by her side.
"Are you satisfied with me?"--he asked her, lowering his voice.--"You
have heard what took place last night?"
"Yes, yes,"--she said in a whisper:--"you did well."
And she walked on faster than ever.
"You are satisfied?"
Liza only nodded her head.
"Feodor Ivanitch,"--she began, in a composed, but weak voice:--"I have
wanted to ask you: do not come to our house again; go away as speedily as
possible; we can see each other later on,--sometime, a year hence. But
now, do this for me; comply with my request, for God's sake."
"I am ready to obey you in all things, Lizaveta Mikhailovna; but is it
possible that we are to part thus? will you not say a single word to me?"
"Feodor Ivanitch, here you are now, walking by my side. But you are
already far away from me. And not you alone, but also...."
"Finish, I entreat you!"--exclaimed Lavretzky:--"what is it that you
mean to say?"
"You will hear, perhaps ... but whatever happens, forget ... no, do not
forget me,--remember me."
"I forget you!..."
"Enough; farewell. Do not follow me."
"Liza ..."--Lavretzky was beginning.
"Farewell, farewell!"--she repeated, dropped her veil still lower, and
advanced almost at a run.
Lavretzky gazed after her, and dropping his head, went back down the
street. He hit upon Lemm, who was also walking along, with his hat pulled
down on his nose, and staring at the ground under his feet.
They stared at each other in silence.
"Well, what have you to say?"--said Lavretzky at last.
"What have I to say?"--returned Lemm surlily:--"I have nothing to say.
Everything is dead, and we are dead. (Alles ist todt und wir sind todt.)
You are going to the right, I think?"
"Yes."
"Then I go to the left. Good-bye."
On the following morning, Feodor Ivanitch and his wife set out for
Lavriki. She drove in front, in the carriage, with Ada and Justine; he
came behind, in his tarantas. The pretty little girl never quitted the
carriage-window during the whole journey; she was surprised at
everything: at the peasants, the peasant women, the wells, the
shaft-arches, the carriage-bells, at the multitude of jackdaws; Justine
shared her surprise. Varvara Pavlovna laughed at their comments and
exclamations.... She was in high spirits; before their departure from the
town of O * * * she had had an explanation with her husband.
"I understand your position,"--she had said to him,--and he, from the
expression of her clever eyes, was able to conclude that she did fully
understand his position,--"but you must do me the justice, at least, to
say that I am easy to live with; I shall not obtrude myself upon you,
embarrass you; I wanted to assure Ada's future. I need nothing further."
"Yes, and you have attained your object,"--said Feodor Ivanitch.
"My sole idea now is to shut myself up in the wilds; I shall forever
remember your good deed in my prayers...."
"Faugh!... enough of that,"--he interrupted her.
"And I shall know how to respect your independence, and your
repose,"--she completed her phrase, which she had prepared in advance.
Lavretzky had made her a low bow. Varvara Pavlovna understood that her
husband, in his soul, was grateful to her.
On the second day, toward the evening, they reached Lavriki; a week
later, Lavretzky set off for Moscow, leaving his wife five thousand
rubles for her expenses--and the day after Lavretzky's departure,
Panshin, whom Varvara Pavlovna had begged not to forget her in her
isolation, made his appearance. She gave him the warmest sort of a
welcome, and until late into the night the lofty rooms of the house and
the very garden rang with the sounds of music, singing, and merry French
speeches. Panshin visited Varvara Pavlovna for three days; when he
took leave of her, and warmly pressed her beautiful hands, he promised to
return very soon--and he kept his promise.
-----
[13] That is--they figuratively begged the pardon of all whom they
might have offended, before entering on the Church service.
The officiating priest does the same.--Translator.
[14] "Worthy and right is it, to bow down to the Father, and to the
Son, and to the Holy Spirit, to the Trinity, consubstantial and
indivisible"--at a very solemn point, and quite late in the
Liturgy.--Translator.