About the middle of the next day Lavretsky went to the Kalitines'. On
his way there he met Panshine, who galloped past on horseback, his
hat pulled low over his eyes. At the Kalitines', Lavretsky was not
admitted, for the first time since he had made acquaintance with the
family. Maria Dmitrievna was asleep, the footman declared; her head
ached, Marfa Timofeevna and Lizaveta Mikhailovna were not at home.
Lavretsky walked round the outside of the garden in the vague hope of
meeting Liza, but he saw no one. Two hours later he returned to the
house, but received the same answer as before; moreover, the footman
looked at him in a somewhat marked manner. Lavretsky thought it would
be unbecoming to call three times in one day, so he determined to
drive out to Vasilievskoe, where, moreover, he had business to
transact.
On his way there he framed various plans, each one more charming than
the rest. But on his arrival at his aunt's estate, sadness took hold
of him. He entered into conversation with Anton; but the old man, as
if purposely, would dwell on none but gloomy ideas. He told Lavretsky
how Glafira Petrovna, just before her death, had bitten her own hand.
And then, after an interval of silence, he added with a sigh, "Every
man, _barin batyushka_,[A] is destined to devour himself."
[Footnote A: Seigneur, father.]
It was late in the day before Lavretsky set out on his return. The
music he had heard the night before came back into his mind, and the
image of Liza dawned on his heart in all its sweet serenity. He was
touched by the thought that she loved him; and he arrived at his
little house in the town, tranquillized and happy.
The first thing that struck him when he entered the vestibule, was a
smell of patchouli, a perfume he disliked exceedingly. He observed
that a number of large trunks and boxes were standing there, and he
thought there was a strange expression on the face of the servant who
hastily came to meet him. He did not stop to analyze his impressions,
but went straight into the drawing-room.
A lady, who wore a black silk dress with flounces, and whose pale face
was half hidden by a cambric handkerchief, rose from the sofa, took
a few steps to meet him, bent her carefully-arranged and perfumed
locks--and fell at his feet. Then for the first time, he recognized
her. That lady was his wife!
His breathing stopped. He leaned against the wall.
"Do not drive me from you, Theodore!" she said in French; and her
voice cut him to the heart like a knife. He looked at her without
comprehending what he saw, and yet, at the same time, he involuntarily
remarked that she had grown paler and stouter.
"Theodore!" she continued, lifting her eyes from time to time towards
heaven, her exceedingly pretty fingers, tipped with polished nails of
rosy hue, writhing the while in preconcerted agonies--"Theodore, I am
guilty before you--deeply guilty. I will say more--I am a criminal;
but hear what I have to say. I am tortured by remorse; I have become a
burden to myself; I can bear my position no longer. Ever so many times
I have thought of addressing you, but I was afraid of your anger. But
I have determined to break every tie with the past--_puis, j'ai été si
malade_. I was so ill," she added, passing her hand across her brow
and cheek, "I took advantage of the report which was spread abroad
of my death, and I left everything. Without stopping anywhere, I
travelled day and night to come here quickly. For a long time I was in
doubt whether to appear before you, my judge--_paraitre devant vous
man juge_; but at last I determined to go to you, remembering your
constant goodness. I found out your address in Moscow. Believe me,"
she continued, quietly rising from the ground and seating herself upon
the very edge of an arm-chair, "I often thought of death, and I
could have found sufficient courage in my heart to deprive myself of
life--ah! life is an intolerable burden to me now--but the thought of
my child, my little Ada, prevented me. She is here now; she is asleep
in the next room, poor child. She is tired out You will see her,
won't you? She, at all events, is innocent before you; and so
unfortunate--so unfortunate!" exclaimed Madame Lavretsky, and melted
into tears.
Lavretsky regained his consciousness at last. He stood away from the
wall, and turned towards the door.
"You are going away?" exclaimed his wife, in accents of despair. "Oh,
that is cruel! without saying a single word to me--not even one of
reproach! This contempt kills me; it is dreadful!"
Lavretsky stopped.
"What do you want me to say to you?" he said in a hollow tone.
"Nothing--nothing!" she cried with animation. "I know that I have no
right to demand anything. I am no fool, believe me. I don't hope, I
don't dare to hope, for pardon. I only venture to entreat you to tell
me what I ought to do, where I ought to live. I will obey your orders
like a slave, whatever they may be."
"I have no orders to give," replied Lavretsky in the same tone as
before. "You know that all is over between us--and more than ever now.
You can live where you like; and if your allowance is too small--"
"Ah, don't say such terrible things!" she said, interrupting him.
"Forgive me, if only--if only for the sake of this angel."
And having uttered these words, Varvara Pavlovna suddenly rushed
into the other room, and immediately returned with a very
tastefully-dressed little girl in her arms. Thick flaxen curls fell
about the pretty little rosy face and over the great black, sleepy
eyes of the child, who smilingly blinked at the light, and held on to
her mother's neck by a chubby little arm.
"_Ada, vois, c'est ton père_," said Varvara Pavlovna, removing
the curls from the child's eyes, and kissing her demonstratively.
"_Prie-le avec moi_."
"_C'est là, papa_?" the little girl lispingly began to stammer.
"_Oui, mon enfant, n'est-ce pas que tu l'aimes_?"