The next day was Sunday. Lavretsky was not awakened by the bells which
clanged for early Mass, for he had not closed his eyes all night; but
they reminded him of another Sunday, when he went to church at Liza's
request. He rose in haste. A certain secret voice told him that to-day
also he would see her there. He left the house quietly, telling the
servant to say to Varvara Pavlovna, who was still asleep, that he
would be back to dinner, and then, with long steps, he went where the
bell called him with its dreary uniformity of sound.
He arrived early; scarcely any one was yet in the church. A Reader was
reciting the Hours in the choir. His voice, sometimes interrupted by
a cough, sounded monotonously, rising and falling by turns. Lavretsky
placed himself at a little distance from the door. The worshippers
arrived, one after another, stopped, crossed themselves, and bowed in
all directions. Their steps resounded loudly through the silent and
almost empty space, and echoed along the vaulted roof. An infirm old
woman, wrapped in a threadbare hooded cloak, knelt by Lavretsky's side
and prayed fervently. Her toothless, yellow, wrinkled face expressed
intense emotion. Her bloodshot eyes gazed upwards, without moving, on
the holy figures displayed upon the iconostasis. Her bony hand kept
incessantly coming out from under her cloak, and making the sign of
the cross--with a slow and sweeping gesture, and with steady pressure
of the fingers on the forehead and the body. A peasant with a morose
and thickly-bearded face, his hair and clothes all in disorder,
came into the church, threw himself straight down on his knees, and
immediately began crossing and prostrating himself, throwing back his
head and shaking it after each inclination. So bitter a grief showed
itself in his face and in all his gestures, that Lavretsky went up to
him and asked him what was the matter. The peasant sank back with an
air of distrust; then, looking at him coldly, said in a hurried voice,
"My son is dead," and again betook himself to his prostrations.
"What sorrow can they have too great to defy the consolations of the
Church?" thought Lavretsky, and he tried to pray himself. But his
heart seemed heavy and hardened, and his thoughts were afar off. He
kept waiting for Liza; but Liza did not come. The church gradually
filled with people, but he did not see Liza among them. Mass began,
the deacon read the Gospel, the bell sounded for the final prayer.
Lavretsky advanced a few steps, and suddenly he caught sight of Liza.
She had come in before him, but he had not observed her till now.
Standing in the space between the wall and the choir, to which she had
pressed as close as possible, she never once looked round, never moved
from her place. Lavretsky did not take his eyes off her till the
service was quite finished; he was bidding her a last farewell. The
congregation began to disperse, but she remained standing there. She
seemed to be waiting for Lavretsky to go away. At last, however, she
crossed herself for the last time, and went out without turning round.
No one but a maid-servant was with her.
Lavretsky followed her out of the church, and came up with her in the
street. She was walking very fast, her head drooping, her veil pulled
low over her face.
"Good-day, Lizaveta Mikhailovna," he said in a loud voice, with
feigned indifference. "May I accompany you?"
She made no reply. He walked on by her side.
"Are you satisfied with me?" he asked, lowering his voice. "You have
heard what took place yesterday, I suppose?"
"Yes, yes," she answered in a whisper; "that was very good;" and she
quickened her pace.
"Then you are satisfied?"
Liza only made a sign of assent.
"Fedor Ivanovich," she began, presently, in a calm but feeble voice,
"I wanted to ask you something. Do not come any more to our house. Go
away soon. We may see each other by-and-by--some day or other--a year
hence, perhaps. But now, do this for my sake. In God's name, I beseech
you, do what I ask!"
"I am ready to obey you in every thing, Lizaveta Mikhailovna. But can
it be that we must part thus? Is it possible that you will not say a
single word to me?"
"Fedor Ivanovich, you are walking here by my side. But you are already
so far, far away from me; and not only you, but--"
"Go on, I entreat you!" exclaimed Lavretsky. "What do you mean?"
"You will hear, perhaps--But whatever it may be, forget--No, do not
forget me--remember me."
"I forget you?"
"Enough. Farewell. Please do not follow me."
"Liza--" began Lavretsky.
"Farewell, farewell!" she repeated, and then, drawing her veil still
lower over her face, she went away, almost at a run.
Lavretsky looked after her for a time, and then walked down the street
with drooping head. Presently he ran against Lemm, who also was
walking along with his hat pulled low over his brows, and his eyes
fixed on his feet.
They looked at each other for a time in silence.
"Well, what have you to say?" asked Lavretsky at last.
"What have I to say?" replied Lemm, in a surly voice. "I have nothing
to say. 'All is dead and we are dead.' ('_Alles ist todt und wir sind
todt_.') Do you go to the right?"
"Yes."
"And I am going to the left. Good-bye."
* * * * *
On the following morning Lavretsky took his wife to Lavriki. She went
in front in a carriage with Ada and Justine. He followed behind in a
tarantass. During the whole time of the journey, the little girl never
stirred from the carriage-window. Every thing astonished her: the
peasant men and women, the cottages, the wells, the arches over the
horses' necks, the little bells hanging from them, and the numbers of
rooks. Justine shared her astonishment. Varvara Pavlovna kept laughing
at their remarks and exclamations. She was in excellent spirits; she
had had an explanation with her husband before leaving O.
"I understand your position," she had said to him; and, from the
expression of her quick eyes, he could see that she did completely
understand his position. "But you will do me at least this
justice--you will allow that I am an easy person to live with. I shall
not obtrude myself on you, or annoy you. I only wished to ensure Ada's
future; I want nothing more."
"Yes, you have attained all your ends," said Lavretsky.
"There is only one thing I dream of now; to bury myself for ever in
seclusion. But I shall always remember your kindness--"
"There! enough of that!" said he, trying to stop her.
"And I shall know how to respect your tranquillity and your
independence," she continued, bringing her preconcerted speech to a
close.
Lavretsky bowed low. Varvara understood that her husband silently
thanked her.
The next day they arrived at Lavriki towards evening. A week later
Lavretsky went away to Moscow, having left five thousand roubles at
his wife's disposal; and the day after Lavretsky's departure, Panshine
appeared, whom Varvara Pavlovna had entreated not to forget her in her
solitude. She received him in the most cordial manner; and, till late
that night, the lofty rooms of the mansion and the very garden itself
were enlivened by the sounds of music, and of song, and of joyous
French talk. Panshine spent three days with Varvara Pavlovna. When
saying farewell to her, and warmly pressing her beautiful hands, he
promised to return very soon--and he kept his word.