In the meantime the evening had arrived, and Maria Dmitrievna evinced
a desire to return home. With some difficulty the little girls were
torn away from the lake, and got ready for the journey. Lavretsky said
he would accompany his guests half-way home, and ordered a horse to be
saddled for him. After seeing Maria Dmitrievna into her carriage he
looked about for Lemm; but the old man could nowhere be found. He
had disappeared the moment the fishing was over, Anton slammed the
carriage door to, with a strength remarkable at his age, and cried
in a stern voice, "Drive on, coachman!" The carriage set off. Maria
Dmitrievna and Liza occupied the back seats; the two girls and the
maid sat in front.
The evening was warm and still, and the windows were open on both
sides. Lavretsky rode close by the carriage on Liza's side, resting a
hand on the door--he had thrown the reins on the neck of his easily
trotting horse--and now and then exchanged two or three words with the
young girl. The evening glow disappeared. Night came on, but the air
seemed to grow even warmer than before. Maria Dmitrievna soon went to
sleep; the little girls and the maid servant slept also. Smoothly and
rapidly the carriage rolled on. As Liza bent forwards, the moon, which
had only just made its appearance, lighted up her face, the fragrant
night air breathed on her eyes and cheeks, and she felt herself
happy. Her hand rested on the door of the carriage by the side of
Lavretsky's. He too felt himself happy as he floated on in the calm
warmth of the night, never moving his eyes away from the good young
face, listening to the young voice, clear even in its whispers, which
spoke simple, good words.
It even escaped his notice for a time that he had gone more than half
of the way. Then he would not disturb Madame Kalitine, but he pressed
Liza's hand lightly and said, "We are friends now, are we not?" She
nodded assent, and he pulled up his horse. The carriage rolled on its
way quietly swinging and curtseying.
Lavretsky returned home at a walk. The magic of the summer night took
possession of him. All that spread around him seemed so wonderfully
strange, and yet at the same time so well known and so dear. Far and
near all was still--and the eye could see very far, though it could
not distinguish much of what it saw--but underneath that very
stillness a young and flowering life made itself felt.
Lavretsky's horse walked on vigorously, swinging itself steadily to
right and left. Its great black shadow moved by its side. There was a
sort of secret charm in the tramp of its hoofs, something strange and
joyous in the noisy cry of the quails. The stars disappeared in a kind
of luminous mist. The moon, not yet at its full, shone with steady
lustre. Its light spread in a blue stream over the sky, and fell in
a streak of vaporous gold on the thin clouds which went past close at
hand.
The freshness of the air called a slight moisture into Lavretsky's
eyes, passed caressingly over all his limbs, and flowed with free
current into his chest. He was conscious of enjoying, and felt glad
of that enjoyment. "Well, we will live on still; she has not entirely
deprived us--" he did not say who, or of what.--Then he began to think
about Liza; that she could scarcely be in love with Panshine; that if
he had met her under other circumstances--God knows what might have
come of it; that he understood Lemm's feelings about her now, although
she had "no words of her own." And, moreover, that that was not true;
for she had words of her own. "Do not speak lightly about that,"
recurred to Lavretsky's memory. For a long time he rode on with bent
head, then he slowly drew himself up repeating,--
"And I have burnt all that I used to worship,
I worship all that I used to burn--"
then he suddenly struck his horse with his whip and and galloped
straight away home.
On alighting from his horse he gave a final look round, a thankful
smile playing involuntarily on his lips. Night--silent, caressing
night--lay on the hills and dales. From its fragrant depths
afar--whether from heaven or from earth could not be told--there
poured a soft and quiet warmth. Lavretsky wished a last farewell to
Liza--and hastened up the steps.
The next day went by rather slowly, rain setting in early in the
morning. Lemm looked askance, and compressed his lips even tighter
and tighter, as if he had made a vow never to open them again. When
Lavretsky lay down at night he took to bed with him a whole bundle of
French newspapers, which had already lain unopened on his table for
two or three weeks. He began carelessly to tear open their covers and
to skim the contents of their columns, in which, for the matter of
that, there was but little that was new. He was just on the point
of throwing them aside, when he suddenly bounded out of bed as if
something had stung him. In the _feuilleton_ of one of the papers our
former acquaintance, M. Jules, communicated to his readers a "painful
piece of intelligence." "The fascinating, fair Muscovite," he wrote,
"one of the queens of fashion, the ornament of Parisian salons, Madame
de Lavretski," had died almost suddenly. And this news, unfortunately
but too true, had just reached him, M. Jules. He was, so he continued,
he might say, a friend of the deceased--
Lavretsky put on his clothes, went out into the garden, and walked up
and down one of its alleys until the break of day.
At breakfast, next morning, Lemm asked Lavretsky to let him have
horses in order to get back to town.
"It is time for me to return to business, that is to lessons,"
remarked the old man. "I am only wasting my time here uselessly."
Lavretsky did not reply at once. He seemed lost in a reverie.
"Very good," he said at last; "I will go with you myself."
Refusing the assistance of a servant, Lemm packed his little
portmanteau, growing peevish the while and groaning over it, and then
tore up and burnt some sheets of music paper. The carriage came to the
door. As Lavretsky left his study he put in his pocket the copy of
the newspaper he had read the night before. During the whole of
the journey neither Lavretsky nor Lemm said much. Each of them was
absorbed in his own thoughts, and each was glad that the other did not
disturb him. And they parted rather coldly, an occurrence which, for
the matter of that, often occurs among friends in Russia. Lavretsky
drove the old man to his modest dwelling. Lemm took his portmanteau
with him as he got out of the carriage, and, without stretching out
his hand to his friend, he held the portmanteau before him with both
hands, and, without even looking at him, said in Russian, "Farewell!"
"Farewell!" echoed Lavretsky, and told the coachman to drive to his
apartments; for he had taken lodgings in O.
After writing several letters, and making a hasty dinner, he went
to the Kalitines'. There he found no one in the drawing-room but
Panshine, who told him that Maria Dmitrievna would come directly, and
immediately entered into conversation with him in the kindest and most
affable manner. Until that day Panshine had treated Lavretsky, not
with haughtiness exactly, but with condescension; but Liza, in
describing her excursion of the day before, had spoken of Lavretsky as
an excellent and clever man. That was enough; the "excellent" man must
be captivated.
Panshine began by complimenting Lavretsky, giving him an account of
the rapture with which, according to him, all the Kalitine family
had spoken of Vasilievskoe; then, according to his custom, adroitly
bringing the conversation round to himself, he began to speak of his
occupations, of his views concerning life, the world, and the service;
said a word or two about the future of Russia, and about the
necessity of holding the Governors of provinces in hand; joked
facetiously about himself in that respect, and added that he, among
others, had been entrusted at St. Petersburg with the commission _de
populariser l'idée du cadastre_. He spoke at tolerable length, and
with careless assurance, solving all difficulties, and playing with
the most important administrative and political questions as a juggler
does with his balls. Such expressions as, "That is what I should do if
I were the Government," and, "You, as an intelligent man, doubtless
agree with me," were always at the tip of his tongue.
Lavretsky listened coldly to Panshine's eloquence. This handsome,
clever, and unnecessarily elegant young man, with his serene smile,
his polite voice, and his inquisitive eyes, was not to his liking.
Panshine soon guessed, with the quick appreciation of the feelings of
others which was peculiar to him, that he did not confer any special
gratification on the person he was addressing, so he disappeared under
cover of some plausible excuse, having made up his mind that Lavretsky
might be an excellent man, but that he was unsympathetic, "_aigri_"
and, _en somme_, somewhat ridiculous.
Madame Kalitine arrived, accompanied by Gedeonovsky. Then came Marfa
Timofeevna and Liza, and after them all the other members of the
family. Afterwards, also, there arrived the lover of music, Madame
Belenitsine, a thin little woman, with an almost childish little face,
pretty but worn, a noisy black dress, a particolored fan, and thick
gold bracelets. With her came her husband, a corpulent man, with red
cheeks, large hands and feet, white eyelashes, and a smile which never
left his thick lips. His wife never spoke to him in society; and at
home, in her tender moments, she used to call him her "sucking pig."
Panshine returned; the room became animated and noisy. Such an
assemblage of people was by no means agreeable to Lavretsky. He was
especially annoyed by Madame Belenitsine, who kept perpetually staring
at him through her eye-glass. If it had not been for Liza he would
have gone away at once. He wanted to say a few words to her alone, but
for a long time he could not obtain a fitting opportunity of doing so,
and had to content himself with following her about with his eyes It
was with a secret joy that he did so. Never had her face seemed to
him more noble and charming. She appeared to great advantage in the
presence of Madame Belenitsine. That lady was incessantly fidgeting
on her chair, working her narrow shoulders, laughing affectedly, and
either all but closing her eyes or opening them unnaturally wide. Liza
sat still, looked straight before her, and did not laugh at all.
Madame Kalitine sat down to cards with Marfa Timofeevna, Belenitsine,
and Gedeonovsky, the latter of whom played very slowly, made continual
mistakes, squeezed up his eyes, and mopped his face with his
handkerchief. Panshine assumed an air of melancholy, and expressed
himself tersely, sadly, and significantly--altogether after the
fashion of an artist who has not yet had any opportunity of showing
off--but in spite of the entreaties of Madame Belenitsine, who
coquetted with him to a great extent he would not consent to sing his
romance. Lavretsky's presence embarrassed him.
Lavretsky himself spoke little, but the peculiar expression his face
wore struck Liza as soon as he entered the room. She immediately felt
that he had something to communicate to her; but, without knowing
herself why, she was afraid of asking him any questions. At last,
as she was passing into the next room to make the tea, she almost
unconsciously looked towards him. He immediately followed her.
"What is the matter with you?" she asked, putting the teapot on the
_samovar_.[A]
[Footnote A: Urn.]
"You have remarked something, then?" he said.
"You are different to-day from what I have seen you before."
Lavretsky bent over the table.
"I wanted," he began, "to tell you a piece of news, but just now it is
impossible. But read the part of this _feuilleton_ which is marked in
pencil," he added, giving her the copy of the newspaper he had
brought with him. "Please keep the secret; I will come back to-morrow
morning."
Liza was thoroughly amazed. At that moment Panshine appeared in the
doorway. She put the newspaper in her pocket.
"Have you read Obermann,[A] Lizaveta Mikhailovna?" asked Panshine with
a thoughtful air.
[Footnote A: The sentimental romance of that name, written by E.
Pivert de Sénancour.]
Liza replied vaguely as she passed out of the room, and then went
up-stairs. Lavretsky returned into the drawing room and approached the
card table. Marfa Timofeevna flushed, and with her cap-strings untied,
began to complain to him of her partner Gedeonovsky, who, according
to her, had not yet learnt his steps. "Card-playing," she said,
"is evidently a very different thing from gossiping." Meanwhile
Gedeonovsky never left off blinking and mopping himself with his
handkerchief.
Presently Liza returned to the drawing-room and sat down in a corner.
Lavretsky looked at her and she at him, and each experienced a painful
sensation. He could read perplexity on her face, and a kind of secret
reproach. Much as he wished it, he could not get a talk with her, and
to remain in the same room with her as a mere visitor among other
visitors was irksome to him, so he determined to go away.
When taking leave of her, he contrived to repeat that he would come
next day, and he added that he counted on her friendship. "Come," she
replied, with the same perplexed look still on her face.
After Lavretsky's departure, Panshine grew animated. He began to give
advice to Gedeonovsky, and to make mock love to Madame Belenitsine,
and at last he sang his romance. But when gazing at Liza, or talking
to her, he maintained the same air as before, one of deep meaning,
with a touch of sadness in it.
All that night also, Lavretsky did not sleep. He was not unhappy, he
was not agitated; on the contrary, he was perfectly calm; but he could
not sleep. He was not even recalling the past. He simply looked at his
present life. His heart beat firmly and equably, the hours flew by, he
did not even think about sleeping. Only at times there came into his
head the thought, "Surely this is not true, this is all nonsense." And
then he would stop short, and presently let his head fall back and
again betake himself to gazing into the stream of his life.