Madame Kalitine did not receive Lavretsky over cordially, when he paid
her a visit next day. "Ah! he's making a custom of it," she thought.
She was not of herself disposed to like him very much, and Panshine,
who had got her thoroughly under his influence, had praised him the
evening before in a very astutely disparaging manner. As she did not
treat him as an honored guest, nor think it necessary to trouble
herself about one who was a relation, almost a member of the family
circle, before half an hour had elapsed he went out into the garden.
There he and Liza strolled along one of the alleys, while Lenochka
and Shurochka played around the flower-pots at a little distance from
them.
Liza was as quiet as usual, but more than usually pale. She took
the folded leaf of the newspaper from her pocket, and handed it to
Lavretsky.
"That is terrible news," she said.
Lavretsky made no reply.
"But, after all, perhaps it may not be true."
"That is why I asked you not to mention it to any one."
Liza walked on a little farther.
"Tell me," she began, "are not you sorry?--not at all sorry?"
"I don't know myself what I feel," answered Lavretsky.
"But you loved her once?"
"I did."
"Very much?"
--"Yes."
"And yet you are not sorry for her death?"
"It is not only now that she has become dead for me."
"You are saying what is sinful. Don't be angry with me. You have
called me your friend. A friend may say anything. And it really seems
terrible to me. The expression on your face yesterday was not good to
see. Do you remember your complaining about her not long ago? And at
that very time, perhaps, she was already no longer among the
living. It is terrible. It is just as if it had been sent you as a
punishment."
Lavretsky laughed bitterly.
"You think so?--at all events I am free now."
Liza shuddered.
"Do not speak so any more. What use is your freedom to you? You should
not be thinking of that now, but of forgiveness--"
"I forgave her long ago," interrupted Lavretsky, with an impatient
gesture.
"No, I don't mean that," answered Liza, reddening; "you have not
understood me properly. It is you who ought to strive to get
pardoned."
"Who is there to pardon me?"
"Who? Why God. Who can pardon us except God?"
Lavretsky grasped her hand.
"Ah! Lizaveta Mikhailovna!" he exclaimed, "believe me, I have already
been punished enough--I have already expiated all, believe me."
"You cannot tell that," said Liza, in a low voice. "You forget. It was
not long ago that you and I were talking, and you were not willing to
forgive her."
Both of them walked along the alley for a time in silence.
"And about your daughter?" suddenly asked Liza, and then stopped
short.
Lavretsky shuddered.
"Oh! don't disturb yourself about her. I have already sent off letters
in all directions. The future of my daughter, as you--as you say--is
assured. You need not trouble yourself on that score."
Liza smiled sadly.
"But you are right," continued Lavretsky. "What am I to do with my
freedom--what use is it to me?"
"When did you get this paper?" asked Liza, without answering his
question.
"The day after your visit."
"And have not you--have not you even shed a tear?"
"No; I was thunderstruck. But whither should I look for tears? Should
I cry over the past? Why, all mine has been, as it were, consumed with
fire. Her fault did not actually destroy my happiness; it only proved
to me that for me happiness had never really existed. What, then, had
I to cry for? Besides--who knows?--perhaps I should have been more
grieved if I had received this news a fortnight sooner."
"A fortnight!" replied Liza. "But what can have happened to make such
a difference in that fortnight?"
Lavretsky make no reply at first, and Liza suddenly grew still redder
than before.
"Yes, yes! you have guessed it!" unexpectedly cried Lavretsky. "In the
course of that fortnight I have learnt what a woman's heart is like
when it is pure and clear; and my past life seems even farther off
from me than it used to be."
Liza became a little uncomfortable, and slowly turned to where
Lenochka and Shurochka were in the flower-garden.
"But I am glad I showed you that newspaper," said Lavretsky, as he
followed her. "I have grown accustomed to conceal nothing from you,
and I hope you will confide in me equally in return."
"Do you really?" said Liza, stopping still. "In that case, I ought.
But, no! it is impossible."
"What is it? Tell me--tell me!"
"I really think I ought not.--However," added Liza, turning to
Lavretsky with a smile, "what is the good of a half-confidence? Do you
know, I received a letter to-day?"
"From Panshine?"
"Yes, from him. How did you guess that?"
"And he asks for your hand?"
"Yes," replied Liza, looking straight at Lavretsky with serious eyes.
Lavretsky, in his turn, looked seriously at Liza.
"Well, and what answer have you made him?" he said at last.
"I don't know what to answer," replied Liza, unfolding her arms, and
letting them fall by her side.
"Why? Do you like him?"
"Yes, I like him; I think he is a good man."
"That is just what you told me three days ago, and in the very same
words. But what I want to know is, do you love him--love him with that
strong, passionate feeling which we usually call 'love'?"
"In the sense in which you understand the word--No."
"You are not in love with him?"
"No. But is that necessary?"
"How do you mean?"
"Mamma likes him," continued Liza. "He is good: I have no fault to
find with him."
"But still you waver?"
"Yes--and, perhaps--you, your words are the cause of that. Do you
remember what you said the day before yesterday? But all that is
weakness--"
"Oh, my child!" suddenly exclaimed Lavretsky, and his voice trembled
as he spoke, "don't be fatally wise--don't stigmatize as weakness the
cry of your heart, unwilling to give itself away without love! Do not
take upon yourself so fearful a responsibility towards that man, whom
you do not love, and yet to whom you would be about to belong."
"I shall only be obeying; I shall be taking nothing upon myself,"
began Liza.
"Obey your own heart, then. It only will tell you the truth," said
Lavretsky, interrupting her. "Wisdom, experience--all that is mere
vanity and vexation. Do not deprive yourself of the best, the only
real happiness upon earth."
"And do you speak in that way. Fedor Ivanovich? You married for love
yourself--and were you happy?"
Lavretsky clasped his hands above his head.
"Ah! do not talk about me. You cannot form any idea of what a young,
inexperienced, absurdly brought-up boy may imagine to be love.
However, why should one calumniate one's self? I told you just now I
had never known happiness. No! I have been happy."
"I think, Fedor Ivanovich," said Liza, lowering her voice--she always
lowered her voice when she differed from the person she was speaking
to; besides, she felt considerably agitated just then--"our happiness
upon earth does not depend upon ourselves--"
"It does depend upon ourselves--upon ourselves:" here he seized both
her hands. Liza grew pale and looked at him earnestly, but almost with
alarm--"at least if we do not ruin our own lives. For some people a
love match may turn out unhappily, but not for you, with your calmness
of temperament; with your serenity of soul. I do beseech you not to
marry without love, merely from a feeling of duty, self-denial, or
the like. All that is sheer infidelity, and moreover a matter of
calculation--and worse still. Trust my words. I have a right to say
this; a right for which I have paid dearly. And if your God--"
At that moment Lavretsky became aware that Lenochka and Shurochka
were standing by Liza's side, and were staring at him with intense
astonishment. He dropped Liza's hands, saying hastily, "Forgive me,"
and walked away towards the house.
"There is only one thing I have to ask you," he said, coming back to
Liza. "Don't make up your mind directly, but wait a little, and think
over what I have said to you. And even if you don't believe my words,
but are determined to marry in accordance with the dictates of mere
prudence--even, in that case, Mr. Panshine is not the man you ought
to marry. He must not be your husband. You will promise me not to be
hasty, won't you?"
Liza wished to reply, but she could not utter a single word. Not that
she had decided on being "hasty"--but because her heart beat too
strongly, and a feeling resembling that of fear impeded her breathing.