Four hours later he was on his way towards his home. His tarantass
rolled swiftly along the soft cross-road. There had been no rain for
a fortnight. The atmosphere was pervaded by a light fog of milky hue,
which hid the distant forests from sight, while a smell or burning
filled the air. A number of dusky clouds with blurred outlines stood
out against a pale blue sky, and lingered, slowly drawn. A strongish
wind swept by in an unbroken current, bearing no moisture with it, and
not dispelling the great heat. His head leaning back on the cushions,
his arms folded across his breast, Lavretsky gazed at the furrowed
plains which opened fanwise before him, at the cytisus shrubs, at the
crows and rooks which looked sideways at the passing carriage with
dull suspicion, at the long ridges planted with mugwort, wormwood, and
mountain ash. He gazed--and that vast level solitude, so fresh and
so fertile, that expanse of verdure, and those sweeping slopes, the
ravines studded with clumps of dwarfed oaks, the grey hamlets, the
thinly-clad birch trees--all this Russian landscape, so-long by him
unseen, filled his mind with feelings which were sweet, but at the
same time almost sad, and gave rise to a certain heaviness of heart,
but one which was more akin to a pleasure than to a pain. His thoughts
wandered slowly past, their forms as dark and ill-defined as those
of the clouds, which also seemed vaguely wandering there on high. He
thought of his childhood, of his mother, how they brought him to her
011 her death-bed, and how, pressing his head to her breast, she
began to croon over him, but looked up at Glafira Petrovna and became
silent. He thought of his father, at first robust, brazen-voiced,
grumbling at every thing--then blind, querulous, with white,
uncared-for beard. He remembered how one day at dinner, when he had
taken a little too much wine, the old man suddenly burst out laughing,
and began to prate about his conquests, winking his blind eyes
the while, and growing red in the face. He thought of Varvara
Pavlovna--and his face contracted involuntarily, like that of a man
who feels some sudden pain, and he gave his head an impatient toss.
Then his thoughts rested on Liza. "There," he thought, "is a new life
just beginning. A good creature! I wonder what will become of her. And
she's pretty, too, with her pale, fresh face, her eyes and lips so
serious, and that frank and guileless way she has of looking at you.
It's a pity she seems a little enthusiastic. And her figure is good,
and she moves about lightly, and she has a quiet voice. I like her
best when she suddenly stands still, and listens attentively and
gravely, then becomes contemplative and shakes her hair back. Yes, I
agree, Panshine isn't worthy of her. Yet what harm is there in him?
However, as to all that, why am I troubling my head about it? She will
follow the same road that all others have to follow. I had better go
to sleep." And Lavretsky closed his eyes.
He could not sleep, but he sank into a traveller's dreamy reverie.
Just as before, pictures of by-gone days slowly rose and floated
across his mind, blending with each other, and becoming confused with
other scenes. Lavretsky began to think--heaven knows why--about Sir
Robert Peel; then about French history; lastly, about the victory
which he would have gained if he had been a general. The firing and
the shouting rang in his ears. His head slipped on one side; he opened
his eyes--the same fields stretched before him, the same level views
met his eyes. The iron shoes of the outside horses gleamed brightly by
turns athwart the waving dust, the driver's yellow[A] shirt swelled
with the breeze. "Here I am, returning virtuously to my birth-place,"
suddenly thought Lavretsky, and he called out, "Get on there!" drew
his cloak more closely around him, and pressed himself still nearer
to the cushion. The tarantass gave a jerk. Lavretsky sat upright
and opened his eyes wide. On the slope before him extended a small
village. A little to the right was to be seen an old manor house of
modest dimensions, its shutters closed, its portico awry. On one
side stood a barn built of oak, small, but well preserved. The wide
court-yard was entirely overgrown by nettles, as green and thick as
hemp. This was Vasilievskoe.
[Footnote A: Yellow, with red pieces let in under the armpits.]
The driver turned aside to the gate, and stopped his horses.
Lavretsky's servant rose from his seat, ready to jump down, and
shouted "Halloo!" A hoarse, dull barking arose in reply, but no dog
made its appearance. The lackey again got ready to descend, and
again cried "Halloo!" The feeble barking was repeated, and directly
afterwards a man, with snow-white hair, dressed in a nankeen caftan,
ran into the yard from one of the comers. He looked at the tarantass,
shielding his eyes from the sun, then suddenly struck both his hands
upon his thighs, fidgeted about nervously for a moment, and finally
ran to open the gates. The tarantass entered the court-yard, crushing
the nettles under its wheels, and stopped before the portico. The
white-headed old man, who was evidently of a very active turn, was
already standing on the lowest step, his legs spread awkwardly apart.
He unbuttoned the apron of the carriage, pulling up the leather with a
jerk, and kissed his master's hand while assisting him to alight.
"Good day, good day, brother," said Lavretsky. "Your name is Anton,
isn't it. So you're still alive?"
The old man bowed in silence, and then ran to fetch the keys. While he
ran, the driver sat motionless, leaning sideways and looking at the
closed door; and Lavretsky's man-servant remained in the picturesque
attitude in which he found himself after springing clown to the
ground, one of his arms resting on the box seat. The old man brought
the keys and opened the door, lifting his elbows high the while, and
needlessly wriggling his body--then he stood on one side, and again
bowed down to his girdle.
"Here I am at home, actually returned!" thought Lavretsky, as he
entered the little vestibule, while the shutters opened, one after
another, with creak and rattle, and the light of day penetrated into
the long-deserted rooms.