Liza had written to Lavretsky the night before telling him to come and
see her on this evening; but he went to his own house first. He did
not find either his wife or his daughter there; and the servant told
him that they had both gone to the Kalitines'! This piece of news both
annoyed and enraged him. "Varvara Pavlovna seems to be determined not
to let me live in peace," he thought, an angry feeling stirring in
his heart. He began walking up and down the room, pushing away every
moment, with hand or foot, one of the toys or books or feminine
belongings which fell in his way. Then he called Justine, and told her
to take away all that "rubbish."
"_Oui, monsieur_," she replied, with a grimace, and began to set the
room in order, bending herself into graceful attitudes, and by each
of her gestures making Lavretsky feel that she considered him an
uncivilized bear. It was with a sensation of downright hatred that he
watched the mocking expression of her faded, but still _piquante_,
Parisian face, and looked at her white sleeves, her silk apron, and
her little cap. At last he sent her away, and, after long hesitation,
as Varvara Pavlovna did not return, he determined to go to the
Kalitines', and pay a visit, not to Madame Kalitine (for nothing would
have induced him to enter her drawing-room--that drawing-room in which
his wife was), but to Marfa Timofeevna. He remembered that a back
staircase, used by the maid-servants, led straight to her room.
Lavretsky carried out his plan. By a fortunate chance he met Shurochka
in the court-yard, and she brought him to Marfa Timofeevna. He found
the old lady, contrary to her usual custom, alone. She was without her
cap, and was sitting in a corner of the room in a slouching attitude,
her arms folded across her breast. When she saw Lavretsky, she was
much agitated, and jumping up hastily from her chair, she began going
here and there about the room, as if she were looking for her cap.
"Ah! so you have come, then," she said, fussing about and avoiding his
eyes. "Well, good day to you! Well, what's--what's to be done? Where
were you yesterday? Well, she has come. Well--yes. Well, it must
be--somehow or other."
Lavretsky sank upon a chair.
"Well, sit down, sit down," continued the old lady. "Did you come
straight up-stairs? Yes, of course. Eh! You came to see after me? Many
thanks."
The old lady paused. Lavretsky did not know what to say to her; but
she understood him.
"Liza--yes; Liza was here just now," she continued tying and untying
the strings of her work-bag. "She isn't quite well. Shurochka, where
are you? Come here, my mother; cannot you sit still a moment? And I
have a headache myself. It must be that singing which has given me it,
and the music."
"What singing, aunt?"
"What? don't you know? They have already begun--what do you
call them?--duets down there. And all in Italian--chi-chi and
cha-cha--regular magpies. With their long drawn-out notes, one would
think they were going to draw one's soul out. It's that Panshine, and
your wife too. And how quickly it was all arranged! Quite without
ceremony, just as if among near relations. However, one must say that
even a dog will try to find itself a home somewhere. You needn't die
outside if folks don't chase you away from their houses."
"I certainly must confess I did not expect this," answered Lavretsky.
"This must have required considerable daring."
"No, my dear, it isn't daring with her, it is calculation. However,
God be with her! They say you are going to send her to Lavriki. Is
that true?"
"Yes; I am going to make over that property to her."
"Has she asked you for money?"
"Not yet."
"Well, that request won't be long in coming. But--I haven't looked at
you till now--are you well?"
"Quite well."
"Shurochka!" suddenly exclaimed the old lady. "Go and tell Lizaveta
Mikhailovna--that is--no--ask her--Is she down-stairs?"
"Yes."
"Well, yes. Ask her where she has put my book She will know all about
it."
"Very good."
The old lady commenced bustling about again, and began to open the
drawers in her commode. Lavretsky remained quietly sitting on his
chair.
Suddenly light steps were heard on the staircase--and Liza entered.
Lavretsky stood up and bowed. Liza remained near the door.
"Liza, Lizochka," hurriedly began Marfa Timofeevna, "where have
you--where have you put my book?"
"What book, aunt?"
"Why, good gracious! that book. However, I didn't send for you--but
it's all the same. What are you all doing down-stairs? Here is Fedor
Ivanovich come. How is your headache?"
"It's of no consequence."
"You always say, 'It's of no consequence.' What are you all doing down
below?--having music again?"
"No--They are playing cards."
"Of course; she is ready for anything. Shurochka, I see you want to
run out into the garden. Be off!"
"No, I don't Marfa Timofeevna--"
"No arguing, if you please. Be off. Nastasia Carpovna has gone into
the garden by herself. Go and keep her company. You should show the
old lady respect."
Shurochka left the room.
"But where is my cap? Wherever can it have got to?"
"Let me look for it," said Liza.
"Sit still, sit still! My own legs haven't dropped off yet. It
certainly must be in my bed-room."
And Marfa Timofeevna went away, after casting a side-glance at
Lavretsky. At first she left the door open, but suddenly she returned
and shut it again from the outside.
Liza leant back in her chair and silently hid her face in her hands.
Lavretsky remained standing where he was.
"This is how we have had to see each other!" he said at last.
Liza let her hands fall from before her face.
"Yes," she replied sadly, "we have soon been punished."
"Punished!" echoed Lavretsky. "For what have you, at all events, been
punished?"
Liza looked up at him. Her eyes did not express either sorrow or
anxiety; but they seemed to have become smaller and dimmer than they
used to be. Her face was pale; even her slightly-parted lips had lost
their color.
Lavretsky's heart throbbed with pity and with love.
"You have written to me that all is over," he whispered. "Yes, all is
over--before it had begun."
"All that must be forgotten," said Liza. "I am glad you have come. I
was going to write to you; but it is better as it is. Only we must
make the most of these few minutes. Each of us has a duty to fulfil.
You, Fedor Ivanovich, must become reconciled with your wife."
"Liza!"
"I entreat you to let it be so. By this alone can expiation be made
for--for all that has taken place. Think over it, and then you will
not refuse my request."
"Liza! for God's sake! You ask what is impossible. I am ready to do
every thing you tell me; but to be reconciled with her _now_!--I
consent to every thing, I have forgotten every thing; but I cannot do
violence to my heart. Have some pity; this is cruel!"
"But I do not ask you to do what is impossible. Do not live with her
if you really cannot do so. But be reconciled with her," answered
Liza, once more hiding her face in her hands. "Remember your daughter;
and, besides, do it for my sake."
"Very good," said Lavretsky between his teeth. "Suppose I do this--in
this I shall be fulfilling my duty; well, but you--in what does your
duty consist?"
"That I know perfectly well."
Lavretsky suddenly shuddered.
"Surely you have not made up your mind to many Panshine?" he asked.
"Oh, no!" replied Liza, with an almost imperceptible smile.
"Ah! Liza, Liza!" exclaimed Lavretsky, "how happy we might have been!"
Liza again looked up at him.
"Now even you must see, Fedor Ivanovich, that happiness does not
depend upon ourselves, but upon God."
"Yes, because you--"
The door of the next room suddenly opened, and Marfa Timofeevna came
in, holding her cap in her hand.
"I had trouble enough to find it," she said, standing between Liza and
Lavretsky; "I had stuffed it away myself. Dear me, see what old age
comes to! But, after all, youth is no better. Well, are you going to
Lavriki with your wife?" she added, turning to Fedor Ivanovich.
"To Lavriki with her? I?--I don't know," he added, after a short
pause.
"Won't you pay a visit down stairs?"
"Not to-day."
"Well, very good; do as you please. But you, Liza, ought to go
down-stairs, I think. Ah! my dears. I've forgotten to give any seed to
my bullfinch too. Wait a minute; I will be back directly."
And Marfa Timofeevna ran out of the room without even having put on
her cap.
Lavretsky quickly drew near to Liza.
"Liza," he began, with an imploring voice, "we are about to part for
ever, and my heart is very heavy. Give me your hand at parting."
Liza raised her head. Her wearied, almost lustre less eyes looked at
him steadily.
"No," she said, and drew back the hand she had half held out to him.
"No, Lavretsky" (it was the first time that she called him by this
name), "I will not give you my hand. Why should I? And now leave me,
I beseech you. You know that I love you--Yes, I love you!" she added
emphatically. "But no--no;" and she raised her handkerchief to her
lips.
"At least, then, give me that handkerchief--"
The door creaked. The handkerchief glided down to Liza's knees.
Lavretsky seized it before it had time to fall on the floor, and
quickly hid it away in his pocket; then, as he turned round, he
encountered the glance of Marfa Timofeevna's eyes.
"Lizochka, I think your mother is calling you," said the old lady.
Liza immediately got up from her chair, and left the room.
Marfa Timofeevna sat down again in her corner, Lavretsky was going to
take leave of her.
"Fedia," she said, abruptly.
"What, Aunt?"
"Are you an honorable man?"
"What?"
"I ask you--Are you an honorable man?"
"I hope so."
"Hm! Well, then, give me your word that you are going to behave like
an honorable man."
"Certainly. But why do you ask that?"
"I know why, perfectly well. And so do you, too, my good friend.[A] As
you are no fool, you will understand why I ask you this, if you will
only think over it a little. But now, good-bye, my dear. Thank you for
coming to see me; but remember what I have said, Fedia; and now give
me a kiss. Ah, my dear, your burden is heavy to bear, I know that. But
no one finds his a light one. There was a time when I used to envy the
flies. There are creatures, I thought, who live happily in the world.
But one night I heard a fly singing out under a spider's claws. So,
thought I, even they have their troubles. What can be done, Fedia?
But mind you never forget what you have said to me. And now leave
me--leave me."
[Footnote A: Literally, "my foster father," or "my benefactor."]
Lavretsky left by the back door, and had almost reached the street,
when a footman ran after him and said, "Maria Dmitrievna told me to
ask you to come to her."
"Tell her I cannot come just now," began Lavretsky.
"She told me to ask you particularly," continued the footman. "She
told me to say that she was alone."
"Then her visitors have gone away?" asked Lavretsky.
"Yes," replied the footman, with something like a grin on his face.
Lavretsky shrugged his shoulders, and followed him into the house.