The reader knows how Lavretsky had been brought up and educated. We
will now say a few words about Liza's education. She was ten years old
when her father died, who had troubled himself but little about her.
Overwhelmed with business, constantly absorbed in the pursuit of
adding to his income, a man of bilious temperament and a sour and
impatient nature, he never grudged paying for the teachers and tutors,
or for the dress and the other necessaries required by his children,
but he could not bear "to nurse his squallers," according to his own
expression--and, indeed, he never had any time for nursing them. He
used to work, become absorbed in business, sleep a little, play cards
on rare occasions, then work again. He often compared himself to a
horse yoked to a threshing machine. "My life has soon been spent," he
said on his death-bed, a bitter smile contracting his lips.
As to Maria Dmitrievna, she really troubled herself about Liza very
little more than her husband did, for all that she had taken credit to
herself, when speaking to Lavretsky, for having educated her children
herself. She used to dress her like a doll, and when visitors were
present, she would caress her and call her a good child and her
darling, and that was all. Every continuous care troubled that
indolent lady.
During her father's lifetime, Liza was left in the hands of a
governess, a Mademoiselle Moreau, from Paris; but after his death she
passed under the care of Marfa Timofeevna. That lady is already known
to the reader. As for Mademoiselle Moreau, she was a very small woman,
much wrinkled, and having the manners of a bird, and the character of
a bird also. In her youth she had led a very dissipated life; in her
old age she retained only two passions--the love of dainties and the
love of cards. When her appetite was satiated, and when she was not
playing cards or talking nonsense, her countenance rapidly assumed an
almost death-like expression. She would sit and gaze and breathe, but
it was plain that there was not a single idea stirring in her mind.
She could not even be called good; goodness is not an attribute of
birds. In consequence either of her frivolous youth or of the air of
Paris, which she had breathed from her childhood's days, there was
rooted in her a kind of universal scepticism, which usually found
expression in the words, "_Tout ça c'est des bêtises_." She spoke an
incorrect, but purely Parisian jargon, did not talk scandal, and had
no caprices--what more could one expect from a governess? Over Liza
she had but little influence. All the more powerful, then, was the
influence exercised over the child by her nurse, Agafia Vlasievna.
That woman's story was a remarkable one. She sprang from a family of
peasants, and was married at sixteen to a peasant; but she stood out
in sharp relief against the mass of her peasant sisters. As a child,
she had been spoilt by her father, who had been for twenty years the
head of his commune, and who had made a good deal of money. She was
singularly beautiful, and for grace and taste she was unsurpassed in
the whole district, and she was intelligent, eloquent, and courageous.
Her master, Dmitry Pestof, Madame Kalitine's father, a quiet and
reserved man, saw her one day on the threshing-floor, had a talk with
her, and fell passionately in love with her. Soon after this she
became a widow. Pestof, although he was a married man, took her into
his house, and had her dressed like one of the household. Agafia
immediately made herself at home in her new position, just as if she
had never led a different kind of life. Her complexion grew fairer,
her figure became more rounded, and her arms, under their muslin
sleeves, showed "white as wheat-flour," like those of a wealthy
tradesman's wife. The _samovar_ never quitted her table; she would
wear nothing but silks and velvets; she slept on feather-beds of down.
This happy life lasted five years; then Dmitry Pestof died. His widow,
a lady of a kindly character, respected the memory of her late husband
too much to wish to treat her rival with ignominy, especially as
Agafia had never forgotten herself in her presence; but she married
her to a herdsman, and sent her away from her sight. Three years
passed by. One hot summer day the lady happened to pay a visit to the
cattle-yard. Agafia treated her to such a cool dish of rich cream,
behaved herself so modestly, and looked so clean, so happy, so
contented with every thing, that her mistress informed her that she
was pardoned, and allowed her to return into the house. Before six
months had passed, the lady had become, so attached to her that she
promoted her to the post of housekeeper, and confided all the domestic
arrangements to her care. Thus Agafia came back into power, and again
became fair and plump. Her mistress trusted her implicitly.
So passed five more years. Then misfortune came a second time on
Agafia. Her husband, for whom she had obtained a place as footman,
took to drink, began to absent himself from the house, and ended by
stealing half-a-dozen of his mistress's silver spoons and hiding them,
till a fitting opportunity should arise for carrying them off in his
wife's box. The theft was found out. He was turned into a herdsman
again, and Agafia fell into disgrace. She was not dismissed from the
house, but she was degraded from the position of housekeeper to that
of a needle-woman, and she was ordered to wear a handkerchief on her
head instead of a cap. To every one's astonishment, Agafia bore the
punishment inflicted on her with calm humility. By this time she was
about thirty years old, all her children were dead, and her husband
soon afterwards died also. The season of reflection had arrived for
her, and she did reflect. She became very silent and very devout,
never once letting matins or mass go unheeded by, and she gave away
all her fine clothes. For fifteen years she led a quiet, grave,
peaceful life, quarrelling with no one, giving way to all. If any one
spoke to her harshly, she only bent her head and returned thanks for
the lesson. Her mistress had forgiven her long ago, and had taken the
ban off her--had even given her a cap off her own head to wear. But
she herself refused to doff her handkerchief, and she would never
consent to wear any but a sombre-colored dress. After the death of her
mistress she became even more quiet and more humble than before. It is
easy to work upon a Russian's fears and to secure his attachment, but
it is difficult to acquire his esteem; that he will not readily give,
nor will he give it to every one. But the whole household esteemed
Agafia. No one even so much as remembered her former faults; it was as
if they had been buried in the grave with her old master.
When Kalitine married Maria Dmitrievna, he wanted to entrust the
care of his household to Agafia; but she refused, "on account of
temptation." He began to scold her, but she only bowed low and left
the room. The shrewd Kalitine generally understood people; so he
understood Agafia's character, and did not lose sight of her. When he
settled in town, he appointed her, with her consent, to the post of
nurse to Liza, who was then just beginning her fifth year.
At first Liza was frightened by the serious, even severe, face of her
new nurse; but she soon became accustomed to her, and learned to
love her warmly. The child was of a serious disposition herself. Her
features called to mind Kalitine's regular and finely-moulded face,
but her eyes were not like those of her father; they shone with a
quiet light, expressive of an earnest goodness that is rarely seen in
children. She did not care about playing with dolls; she never laughed
loudly nor long, and a feeling of self-respect always manifested
itself in her conduct. It was not often that she fell into a reverie,
but when she did so there was almost always good reason for it; then
she would keep silence for a time, but generally ended by addressing
to some person older than herself a question which showed that her
mind had been working under the influence of a new impression. She
very soon got over her childish lisp, and even before she was four
years old she spoke with perfect distinctness. She was afraid of her
father. As for her mother, she regarded her with a feeling which she
could scarcely define, not being afraid of her, but not behaving
towards her caressingly. As for that, she did not caress even her
nurse, although she loved her with her whole heart. She and Agafia
were never apart. It was curious to see them together. Agafia, all in
black, with a dark handkerchief on her head, her face emaciated and of
a wax-like transparency, but still beautiful and expressive, would
sit erect on her chair, knitting stockings. At her feet Liza would be
sitting on a little stool, also engaged in some work, or, her clear
eyes uplifted with a serious expression, listening to what Agafia was
telling her. Agafia never told her nursery tales. With a calm and even
voice, she used to tell her about the life of the Blessed Virgin, or
the lives of the hermits and people pleasing to God, or about the
holy female martyrs. She would tell Liza how the saints lived in the
deserts; how they worked out their salvation, enduring hunger and
thirst; and how they did not fear kings, but confessed Christ; and how
the birds of the air brought them food, and the wild beasts obeyed
them; how from those spots where their blood had fallen flowers sprang
up. ("Were they carnations?" once asked Liza, who was very fond of
flowers.) Agafia spoke about these things to Liza seriously and
humbly, as if she felt that it was not for her to pronounce such
grand and holy words; and as Liza listened to her, the image of the
Omnipresent, Omniscient God entered with a sweet influence into her
very soul, filling her with a pure and reverend dread, and Christ
seemed to her to be close to her, and to be a friend, almost, as
it were, a relation. It was Agafia, also, who taught her to pray.
Sometimes she awoke Liza at the early dawn, dressed her hastily, and
secretly conveyed her to matins. Liza would follow her on tiptoe,
scarcely venturing to breathe. The cold, dim morning light, the raw
air pervading the almost empty church, the very secrecy of those
unexpected excursions, the cautious return home to bed--all that
combination of the forbidden, the strange, the holy, thrilled the
young girl, penetrated to the inmost depths of her being.
Agafia never blamed any one, and she never scolded Liza for any
childish faults. When she was dissatisfied about anything, she merely
kept silence, and Liza always understood that silence. With a child's
quick instinct, she also knew well when Agafia was dissatisfied
with others, whether it were with Maria Dmitrievna or with Kalitine
himself.
For rather more than three years Agafia waited upon Liza. She was
replaced by Mademoiselle Moreau; but the frivolous Frenchwoman, with
her dry manner and her constant exclamation, _Tout ça c'est des
bêtises_! could not expel from Liza's heart the recollection of her
much-loved nurse. The seeds that had been sown had pushed their roots
too far for that. After that Agafia, although she had ceased to attend
Liza, remained for some time longer in the house, and often saw her
pupil, and treated her as she had been used to do.
But when Marfa Timofeevna entered the Kalitines' house, Agafia did not
get on well with her. The austere earnestness of the former "wearer of
the coarse petticoat." [Footnote: The _Panovnitsa_, or wearer of the
_Panovna_, a sort of petticoat made of a coarse stuff of motley hue.]
did not please the impatient and self-willed old lady. Agafia obtained
leave to go on a pilgrimage, and she never came back. Vague rumors
asserted that she had retired into a schismatic convent. But the
impression left by her on Liza's heart did not disappear. Just as
before, the girl went to mass, as if she were going to a festival; and
when in church prayed with enthusiasm, with a kind of restrained and
timid rapture, at which her mother secretly wondered not a little.
Even Marfa Timofeevna, although she never put any constraint upon
Liza, tried to induce her to moderate her zeal, and would not let her
make so many prostrations. It was not a lady-like habit, she said.
Liza was a good scholar, that is, a persevering one; she was not
gifted with a profound intellect, or with extraordinarily brilliant
faculties, and nothing yielded to her without demanding from her no
little exertion. She was a good pianiste, but no one else, except
Lemm, knew how much that accomplishment had cost her. She did not read
much, and she had no "words of her own;" but she had ideas of her
own, and she went her own way. In this matter, as well as in personal
appearance, she may have taken after her father, for he never used to
ask any one's advice as to what he should do.
And so she grew up, and So did her life pass, gently and tranquilly,
until she had attained her nineteenth year. She was very charming, but
she was not conscious of the fact. In all her movements, a natural,
somewhat unconventional, grace, revealed itself; in her voice there
sounded the silver notes of early youth. The slightest pleasurable
sensation would bring a fascinating smile to her lips, and add a
deeper light, a kind of secret tenderness, to her already lustrous
eyes. Kind and soft-hearted, thoroughly penetrated by a feeling of
duty, and a fear of injuring any one in any way, she was attached to
all whom she knew, but to no one person in particular. To God
alone did she consecrate her love--loving Him with a timid, tender
enthusiasm. Until Lavretsky came, no one had troubled the calmness of
her inner life.
Such was Liza.