Liza had a little room of her own on the second floor of her mother's
house, a bright, tidy room, with a bedstead with white curtains in it,
a small writing-table, several flower-pots in the corners and in front
of the windows, and fixed against the wall a set of bookshelves and a
crucifix. It was called the nursery; Liza had been born in it.
After coming back from the church where Lavretsky had seen her, she
set all her things in order with even more than usual care, dusted
every thing, examined all her papers and letters from her friends,
and tied them up with pieces of ribbon, shut up all her drawers, and
watered her flowers, giving each flower a caressing touch. And all
this she did deliberately, quietly, with a kind of sweet and tranquil
earnestness in the expression of her face. At last she stopped still
in the middle of the room and looked slowly around her; then she
approached the table over which hung the crucifix, fell on her knees,
laid her head on her clasped hands, and remained for some time
motionless. Presently Marfa Timofeevna entered the room and found her
in that position. Liza did not perceive her arrival. The old lady went
out of the room on tiptoe, and coughed loudly several times outside
the door. Liza hastily rose and wiped her eyes, which shone, with
gathered but not fallen tears.
"So I see you have arranged your little cell afresh," said Marfa
Timofeevna, bending low over a young rose-tree in one of the
flower-pots. "How sweet this smells!"
Liza looked at her aunt with a meditative air.
"What was that word you used?" she whispered.
"What word--what?" sharply replied the old lady. "It is dreadful," she
continued, suddenly pulling off her cap and sitting down on Liza's
bed. "It is more than I can bear. This is the fourth day I've been
just as if I were boiling in a cauldron. I cannot any longer pretend I
don't observe any thing. I cannot bear to see you crying, to see how
pale and withered you are growing. I cannot--I cannot."
"But what makes you say that aunt?" said Liza. "There is nothing the
matter with me, I--"
"Nothing?" exclaimed Marfa Timofeevna. "Tell that to some one else,
not to me! Nothing! But who was on her knees just now? Whose eyelashes
are still wet with tears? Nothing! Why, just look at yourself, what
have you done to your face? where are your eyes gone? Nothing, indeed!
As if I didn't know all!"
"Give me a little time, aunt. All this will pass away."
"Will pass away! Yes, but when? Good heavens! is it possible you have
loved him so much? Why, he is quite an old fellow, Lizochka! Well,
well! I don't deny he is a good man; will not bite; but what of that?
We are all good people; the world isn't shut up in a corner, there
will always be plenty of this sort of goodness."
"I can assure you all this will pass away--all this has already passed
away."
"Listen to what I am going to tell you, Lizochka," suddenly said Marfa
Timofeevna, making Liza sit down beside her on the bed, smoothing down
the girl's hair, and setting her neckerchief straight while she spoke.
"It seems to you, in the heat of the moment, as if it were impossible
for your wound to be cured. Ah, my love, it is only death for which
there is no cure. Only say to yourself, 'I won't give in--so much
for him!' and you will be surprised yourself to see how well and how
quickly it will all pass away. Only have a little patience."
"Aunt," replied Liza, "it has already passed away. All has passed
away."
"Passed away! how passed away? Why your nose has actually grown peaky,
and yet you say--'passed away.' Passed away indeed!"
"Yes, passed away, aunt--if only you are willing to help me," said
Liza, with unexpected animation, and then threw her arms round Marfa
Timofeevna's neck. "Dearest aunt, do be a friend to me, do help me,
don't be angry with me, try to understand me--"
"But what is all this, what is all this, my mother? Don't frighten me,
please. I shall cry out in another minute. Don't look at me like that:
quick, tell me what is the meaning of all this!"
"I--I want--" Here Liza hid her face on Marfa Timofeevna's breast. "I
want to go into a convent," she said in a low tone.
The old lady fairly bounded off the bed.
"Cross yourself, Lizochka! gather your senses together! what ever are
you about? Heaven help you!" at last she stammered out. "Lie down and
sleep a little, my darling. And this comes of your want of sleep,
dearest."
Liza raised her head; her cheeks glowed.
"No, aunt," she said, "do not say that. I have prayed, I have asked
God's advice, and I have made up my mind. All is over. My life with
you here is ended. Such lessons are not given to us without a purpose;
besides, it is not for the first time that I think of it now.
Happiness was not for me. Even when I did indulge in hopes of
happiness, my heart shuddered within me. I know all, both my sins and
those of others, and how papa made our money. I know all, and all that
I must pray away, must pray away. I grieve to leave you, I grieve for
mamma and for Lenochka; but there is no help for it. I feel that it is
impossible for me to live here longer. I have already taken leave of
every thing, I have greeted every thing in the house for the last
time. Something calls me away. I am sad at heart, and I would fain
hide myself away for ever. Please don't hinder me or try to dissuade
me; but do help me, or I shall have to go away by myself."
Marfa Timofeevna listened to her niece with horror.
"She is ill," she thought. "She is raving. We must send for a doctor;
but for whom? Gedeonovsky praised some one the other day; but then he
always lies--but perhaps he has actually told the truth this time."
But when she had become convinced that Liza was not ill, and was not
raving--when to all her objections Liza had constantly made the same
reply, Marfa Timofeevna was thoroughly alarmed, and became exceedingly
sorrowful.
"But surely you don't know, my darling, what sort of life they lead in
convents!" thus she began, in hopes of dissuading her. "Why they will
feed you on yellow hemp oil, my own; they will dress you in coarse,
very coarse clothing; they will make you go out in the cold; you will
never be able to bear all this Lizochka. All these ideas of yours are
Agafia's doing. It is she who has driven you out of your senses. But
then she began with living, and with living to her own satisfaction.
Why shouldn't you live too? At all events, let me die in peace, and
then do as you please. And who on earth has ever known any one go into
a convent for the sake of such-a-one--for a goat's beard--God forgive
me--for a man! Why, if you're so sad at heart, you should pay a visit
to a convent, pray to a saint, order prayers to be said, but don't put
the black veil on your head, my _batyushka_, my _matyushka_."
And Marfa Timofeevna cried bitterly.
Liza tried to console her, wiped the tears from her eyes, and cried
herself, but maintained her purpose unshaken. In her despair, Marfa
Timofeevna tried to turn threats to account, said she would reveal
every thing to Liza's mother; but that too had no effect. All that
Liza would consent to do in consequence of the old lady's urgent
entreaties, was to put off the execution of her plan for a half year.
In return Marfa Timofeevna was obliged to promise that, if Liza had
not changed her mind at the end of the six months, she would herself
assist in the matter, and would contrive to obtain Madame Kalitine's
consent.
* * * * *
As soon as the first cold weather arrived, in spite of her promise to
bury herself in seclusion, Varvara Pavlovna, who had provided herself
with sufficient funds, migrated to St. Petersburg. A modest, but
pretty set of rooms had been found for her there by Panshine, who had
left the province of O. rather earlier than she did. During the latter
part of his stay in O., he had completely lost Madame Kalitine's good
graces. He had suddenly given up visiting her, and indeed scarcely
stirred away from Lavriki. Varvara Pavlovna had enslaved--literally
enslaved him. No other word can express the unbounded extent of the
despotic sway she exercised over him.
Lavretsky spent the winter in Moscow. In the spring of the ensuing
year the news reached him that Liza had taken the veil in the B.
convent, in one of the most remote districts of Russia.