A House of Gentlefolk:Chapters XXXV-XXXIX

Chapter XXXV

The reader knows how Lavretsky grew up and developed. Let us say a few words about Lisa's education. She was in her tenth year when her father died; but he had not troubled himself much about her. Weighed down with business cares, for ever anxious for the increase of his property, bilious, sharp and impatient, he gave money unsparingly for the teachers, tutors, dress and other necessities of his children; but he could not endure, as he expressed it, “to be dandling his squallers,” and indeed had no time to dandle them. He worked, took no rest from business, slept little, rarely played cards, and worked again. He compared himself to a horse harnessed to a threshing-machine. “My life has soon come to an end,” was his comment on his deathbed, with a bitter smile on his parched lips. Marya Dmitrievna did not in reality trouble herself about Lisa any more than her husband, though she had boasted to Lavretsky that she alone had educated her children. She dressed her up like a doll, stroked her on the head before visitors and called her a clever child and a darling to her face, and that was all. Any kind of continuous care was too exhausting for the indolent lady. During her father's lifetime, Lisa was in the hands of a governess, Mademoiselle Moreau from Paris, after his death she passed into the charge of Marfa Timofyevna. Marfa Timofyevna the reader knows already; Mademoiselle Moreau was a tiny wrinkled creature with little bird-like ways and a bird's intellect. In her youth she had led a very dissipated life, but in old age she had only two passions left – gluttony and cards. When she had eaten her fill, and was neither playing cards nor chattering, her face assumed an expression almost death-like. She was sitting, looking, breathing – yet it was clear that there was not an idea in her head. One could not even call her good-natured. Birds are not good-natured. Either as a result of her frivolous youth or of the air of Paris, which she had breathed from childhood, a kind of cheap universal scepticism had found its way into her, usually expressed by the words: tout ca c'est des betises. She spoke ungrammatically, but in a pure Parisian jargon, did not talk scandal and had no caprices – what more can one desire in a governess? Over Lisa she had little influence; all the stronger was the influence on her of her nurse, Agafya Vlasyevna.

This woman's story was remarkable. She came of a peasant family. She was married at sixteen to a peasant; but she was strikingly different from her peasant sisters. Her father had been twenty years starosta, and had made a good deal of money, and he spoiled her. She was exceptionally beautiful, the best-dressed girl in the whole district, clever, ready with her tongue, and daring. Her master Dmitri Pestov, Marya Dmitrievna's father, a man of modest and gentle character, saw her one day at the threshing-floor, talked to her and fell passionately in love with her. She was soon left a widow; Pestov, though he was a married man, took her into his house and dressed her like a lady. Agafya at once adapted herself to her new position, just as if she had never lived differently all her life. She grew fairer and plumper; her arms grew as “floury white” under her muslin-sleeves as a merchant's lady's; the samovar never left her table; she would wear nothing except silk or velvet, and slept on well-stuffed feather-beds. This blissful existence lasted for five years, but Dmitri Pestov died; his widow, a kind-hearted woman, out of regard for the memory of the deceased, did not wish to treat her rival unfairly, all the more because Agafya had never forgotten herself in her presence. She married her, however, to a shepherd, and sent her a long way off. Three years passed. It happened one hot summer day that her mistress in driving past stopped at the cattle-yard. Agafya regaled her with such delicious cool cream, behaved so modestly, and was so neat, so bright, and so contented with everything that her mistress signified her forgiveness to her and allowed her to return to the house. Within six months she had become so much attached to her that she raised her to be housekeeper, and intrusted the whole household management to her. Agafya again returned to power, and again grew plump and fair; her mistress put the most complete confidence in her. So passed five years more. Misfortune again overtook Agafya. Her husband, whom she had promoted to be a footman, began to drink, took to vanishing from the house, and ended by stealing six of the mistress' silver spoons and hiding them till a favourable moment in his wife's box. It was opened. He was sent to be a shepherd again, and Agafya fell into disgrace. She was not turned out of the house, but was degraded from housekeeper to being a sewing-woman and was ordered to wear a kerchief on her head instead of a cap. To the astonishment of every one, Agafya accepted with humble resignation the blow that had fallen upon her. She was at that time about thirty, all her children were dead and her husband did not live much longer. The time had come for her to reflect. And she did reflect. She became very silent and devout, never missed a single matin's service nor a single mass, and gave away all her fine clothes. She spent fifteen years quietly, peacefully, and soberly, never quarrelling with any one and giving way to every one. If any! one scolded her, she only bowed to them and thanked them for the admonition. Her mistress had long ago forgiven her, raised her out of disgrace, and made her a present of a cap of her own. But she was herself unwilling to give up the kerchief and always wore a dark dress. After her mistress' death she became still more quiet and humble. A Russian readily feels fear, and affection; but it is hard to gain his respect: it is not soon given, nor to every one. For Agafya every one in the home had great respect; no one even remembered her previous sins, as though they had been buried with the old master.

When Kalitin became Marya Dmitrievna's husband, he wanted to intrust the care of the house to Agafya. But she refused “on account of temptation;” he scolded her, but she bowed humbly and left the room. Kalitin was clever in understanding men; he understood Agafya and did not forget her. When he moved to the town, he gave her, with her consent, the place of nurse to Lisa, who was only just five years old.

Lisa was at first frightened by the austere and serious face of her new nurse; but she soon grew used to her and began to love her. She was herself a serious child. Her features recalled Kalitin's decided and regular profile, only her eyes were not her father's; they were lighted up by a gentle attentiveness and goodness, rare in children. She did not care to play with dolls, never laughed loudly or for long, and behaved with great decorum. She was not often thoughtful, but when she was, it was almost always with some reason. After a short silence, she usually turned to some grown-up person with a question which showed that her brain had been at work upon some new impression. She very early got over childish lispings, and by the time she was four years old spoke perfectly plainly. She was afraid of her father; her feeling towards her mother was undefinable, she was not afraid of her, nor was she demonstrative to her; but she was not demonstrative even towards Agafya, though she was the only person she loved. Agafya never left her. It was curious to see them together. Agafya, all in black, with a dark handkerchief on her head, her face thin and transparent as wax, but still beautiful and expressive, would be sitting upright, knitting a stocking; Lisa would sit at her feet in a little arm-chair, also busied over some kind of work, and seriously raising her clear eyes, listening to what Agafya was relating to her. And Agafya did not tell her stories; but in even measured accents she would narrate the life of the Holy Virgin, the lives of hermits, saints, and holy men. She would tell Lisa how the holy men lived in deserts, how they were saved, how they suffered hunger and want, and did not fear kings, but confessed Christ; how fowls of the air brought them food and wild beasts listened to them, and flowers sprang up on the spots where their blood had been spilt. “Wall-flowers?” asked Lisa one ay, she was very fond of flowers . . . . Agafya spoke to Lisa gravely and meekly, as though she felt herself to be unworthy to utter such high and holy words. Lisa listened to her, and the image of the all-seeing, all-knowing God penetrated with a kind of sweet power into her very soul, filling it with pure and reverent awe; but Christ became for her something near, well-known, almost familiar. Agafya taught her to pray also. Sometimes she wakened Lisa early at daybreak, dressed her hurriedly, and took her in secret to matins. Lisa followed her on tiptoe, almost holding her breath. The cold and twilight of the early morning, the freshness and emptiness of the church, the very secrecy of these unexpected expeditions, the cautious return home and to her little bed, all these mingled impressions of the forbidden, strange, and holy agitated the little girl and penetrated to the very innermost depths of her nature. Agafya never censured any one, and never scolded Lisa for being naughty. When she was displeased at anything, she only kept silence. And Lisa understood this silence; with a child's quick-sightedness she knew very well, too, when Agafya was displeased with other people, Marya Dmitrievna, or Kalitin himself. For a little over three years, Agafya waited on Lisa, then Mademoiselle Moreau replaced her; but the frivolous Frenchwoman, with her cold ways and exclamation, tout ca c'est des betises, could never dislodge her dear nurse from Lisa's heart; the seeds that had been dropped into it had become too deeply rooted. Besides, though Agafya no longer waited on Lisa, she was still in the house and often saw her charge, who believed in her as before.

Agafya did not, however, get on well with Marfa Timofyevna, when she came to live in the Kalitins' house. Such gravity and dignity on the part of one who had once worn the motley skirt of a peasant wench displeased the impatient and self-willed old lady. Agafya asked leave to go on a pilgrimage and she never came back. There were dark rumours that she had gone off to a retreat of sectaries. But the impression she had left in Lisa's soul was never obliterated. She went as before to the mass as to a festival, she prayed with rapture, with a kind of restrained and shamefaced transport, at which Marya Dmitrievna secretly marvelled not a little, and even Marfa Timofyevna, though she did not restrain Lisa in any way, tried to temper her zeal, and would not let her make too many prostrations to the earth in her prayers; it was not a lady-like habit, she would say. In her studies Lisa worked well, that is to say perseveringly; she was not gifted with specially brilliant abilities, or great intellect; she could not succeed in anything without labour. She played the piano well, but only Lemm knew what it had cost her. She had read little; she had not “words of her own,” but she had her own ideas, and she went her own way. It was not only on the surface that she took after her father; he, too, had never asked other people what was to be done. So she had grown up tranquilly and restfully till she had reached the age of nineteen. She was very charming, without being aware of it herself. Her every movement was full of spontaneous, somewhat awkward gracefulness; her voice had the silvery ring of untouched youth, the least feeling of pleasure called forth an enchanting smile on her lips, and added a deep light and a kind of mystic sweetness to her kindling eyes. Penetrated through and through by a sense of duty, by the dread of hurting any one whatever, with a kind and tender heart, she had loved all men, and no one in particular; God only she had! loved passionately, timidly, and tenderly. Lavretsky was the first to break in upon her peaceful inner life.

Such was Lisa.

Chapter XXXVI

On the following day at twelve o'clock, Lavretsky set off to the Kalitins. On the way he met Panshin, who galloped past him on horseback, his hat pulled down to his very eyebrows. At the Kalitins', Lavretsky was not admitted for the first time since he had been acquainted with them. Marya Dmitrievna was “resting,” so the footman informed him; her excellency had a headache. Marfa Timofyevna and Lisaveta Mihalovna were not at home. Lavretsky walked round the garden in the faint hope of meeting Lisa, but he saw no one. He came back two hours later and received the same answer, accompanied by a rather dubious look from the footman. Lavretsky thought it would be unseemly to call for a third time the same day, and he decided to drive over to Vassilyevskoe, where he had business moreover. On the road he made various plans for the future, each better than the last; but he was overtaken by a melancholy mood when he reached his aunt's little village. He fell into conversation! with Anton; the old man, as if purposely, seemed full of cheerless fancies. He told Lavretsky how, at her death, Glafira Petrovna had bitten her own arm, and after a brief pause, added with a sigh: “Every man, dear master, is destined to devour himself.” It was late when Lavretsky set off on the way back. He was haunted by the music of the day before, and Lisa's image returned to him in all its sweet distinctness; he mused with melting tenderness over the thought that she loved him, and reached his little house in the town, soothed and happy.

The first thing that struck him as he went into the entrance hall was a scent of patchouli, always distasteful to him; there were some high travelling-trunks standing there. The face of his groom, who ran out to meet him, seemed strange to him. Not stopping to analyse his impressions, he crossed the threshold of the drawing room…. On his entrance there rose from the sofa a lady in a black silk dress with flounces, who, raising a cambric handkerchief to her pale face, made a few paces forward, bent her carefully dressed, perfumed head, and fell at his feet…. Then, only, he recognised her: this lady was his wife!

He caught his breath…. He leaned against the wall.

“Theodore, do not repulse me!” she said in French, and her voice cut to his heart like a knife.

He looked at her senselessly, and yet he noticed involuntarily at once that she had grown both whiter and fatter.

“Theodore!” she went on, from time to time lifting her eyes and discreetly wringing her marvellously-beautiful fingers with their rosy, polished nails. “Theodore, I have wronged you, deeply wronged you; I will say more, I have sinned: but hear me; I am tortured by remorse, I have grown hateful to myself, I could endure my position no longer; how many times have I thought of turning to you, but I feared your anger; I resolved to break every tie with the past . . . . Puis j'ai ete si malade . . . . I have been so ill,” she added, and passed her hand over her brow and cheek. I took advantage of the widely-spread rumour of my death, I gave up everything; without resting day or night I hastened hither; I hesitated long to appear before you, my judge . . . paraitre devant vous, mon juge; but I resolved at last, remembering your constant goodness, to come to you; I found your address at Moscow. Believe me,“ she went on, slowly getting up from the floor and sitting on the very! edge of an arm-chair, ”I have often thought of death, and I should have found courage enough to take my life . . . ah! life is a burden unbearable for me now! . . . but the thought of my daughter, my little Ada, stopped me. She is here, she is asleep in the next room, the poor child! She is tired – you shall see her; she at least has done you no wrong, and I am so unhappy, so unhappy!“ cried Madame Lavretsky, and she melted into tears.

Lavretsky came to himself at last; he moved away from the wall and turned towards the door.

“You are going?” cried his wife in a voice of despair. “Oh, this is cruel! Without uttering one word to me, not even a reproach. This contempt will kill me, it is terrible!”

Lavretsky stood still.

“What do you want to hear from me?” he articulated in an expressionless voice.

“Nothing, nothing,” she rejoined quickly, “I know I have no right to expect anything; I am not mad, believe me; I do not hope, I do not dare to hope for your forgiveness; I only venture to entreat you to command me what I am to do, where I am to live. Like a slave I will fulfil your commands whatever they may be.”

“I have no commands to give you,” replied Lavretsky in the same colourless voice; “you know, all is over between us . . . and now more than ever; you can live where you like; and if your allowance is too little – ”

“Ah, don't say such dreadful things,” Varvara Pavlovna interrupted him, “spare me, if only . . . if only for the sake of this angel.” And as she uttered these words, Varvara Pavlovna ran impulsively into the next room, and returned at once with a small and very elegantly dressed little girl in her arms.

Thick flaxen curls fell over her pretty rosy little face, and on to her large sleepy black eyes; she smiled and blinked her eyes at the light and laid a chubby little hand on her mother's neck.

“Ada, vois, c'est ton pere,” said Varvara Pavlovna, pushing the curls back from her eyes and kissing her vigorously, “pre le avec moi.”

“C'est ca, papa?” stammered the little girl lisping.

“Oui, mon enfant, n'est-ce pas que tu l'aimes?”

But this was more than Lavretsky could stand.

“In such a melodrama must there really be a scene like this?” he muttered, and went out of the room.

Varvara Pavlovna stood still for some time in the same place, slightly shrugged her shoulders, carried the little girl off into the next room, undressed her and put her to bed. Then she took up a book and sat down near the lamp, and after staying up for an hour she went to bed herself.

“Eh bien, madame?” queried her maid, a Frenchwoman whom she had brought from Paris, as she unlaced her corset.

“Eh bien, Justine,” se replied, “he is a good deal older, but I fancy he is just the same good-natured fellow. Give me my gloves for the night, and get out my grey high-necked dress for to-morrow, and don't forget the mutton cutlets for Ada . . . . I daresay it will be difficult to get them here; but we must try.”

“A la guerre comme a la guerre,” replied Justine as she put out the candle.

Chapter XXXVII

For more than two hours Lavretsky wandered about the streets of town. The night he had spent in the outskirts of Paris returned to his mind. His heart was bursting and his head, dull and stunned, was filled again with the same dark senseless angry thoughts, constantly recurring. “She is alive, she is here,” he muttered with ever fresh amazement. He felt that he had lost Lisa. His wrath choked him; this blow had fallen too suddenly upon him. How could he so readily have believed in the nonsensical gossip of a journal, a wretched scrap of paper? “Well, if I had not believed it,” he thought, “what difference would it have made? I should not have known that Lisa loved me; she would not have known it herself.” He could not rid himself of the image, the voice, the eyes of his wife . . . and he cursed himself, he cursed everything in the world.

Wearied out he went towards morning to Lemm's. For a long while he could make no one hear; at last at a window the old man's head appeared in a nightcap, sour, wrinkled, and utterly unlike the inspired austere visage which twenty-four hours ago had looked down imperiously upon Lavretsky in all the dignity of artistic grandeur.

“What do you want?” queried Lemm. “I can't play to you every night, I have taken a decoction for a cold.” But Lavretsky's face, apparently, struck him as strange; the old man made a shade for his eyes with his hand, took a look at his elated visitor, and let him in.

Lavretsky went into the room and sank into a chair. The old man stood still before him, wrapping the skirts of his shabby striped dressing-gown around him, shrinking together and gnawing his lips.

“My wife is here,” Lavretsky brought out. He raised his head and suddenly broke into involuntary laughter.

Lemm's face expressed bewilderment, but he did not even smile, only wrapped himself closer in his dressing-gown.

“Of course, you don't know,” Lavretsky went on, “I had imagined . . . I read in a paper that she was dead.”

“O – oh, did you read that lately?” asked Lemm.

“Yes, lately.”

“O – oh,” repeated the old man, raising his eyebrows. “And she is here?”

“Yes. She is at my house now; and I . . . I am an unlucky fellow.”

And he laughed again.

“You are an unlucky fellow,” Lemm repeated slowly.

“Christopher Fedoritch,” began Lavretsky, “would you undertake to carry a note for me?”

“H'm. May I know to whom?”

“Lisavet – ”

“Ah . . . yes, yes, I understand. Very good. And when must the letter be received?”

“To-morrow, as early as possible.”

“H'm. I can send Katrine, my cook. No, I will go myself.”

“And you will bring me an answer?”

“Yes, I will bring you an answer.”

Lemm sighed.

“Yes, my poor young friend; you are certainly an unlucky young man.”

Lavretsky wrote a few words to Lisa. He told her of his wife's arrival, begged her to appoint a meeting with him, – then he flung himself on the narrow sofa, with his face to the wall; and the old man lay down on the bed, and kept muttering a long while, coughing and drinking off his decoction by gulps.

The morning came; they both got up. With strange eyes they looked at one another. At that moment Lavretsky longed to kill himself. The cook, Katrine, brought them some villainous coffee. It struck eight. Lemm put on his hat, and saying that he was going to give a lesson at the Kalitins' at ten, but he could find a suitable pretext for going there now, he set off. Lavretsky flung himself again on the little sofa, and once more the same bitter laugh stirred in the depth of his soul. He thought of how his wife had driven him out of his house; he imagined Lisa's position, covered his eyes and clasped his hands behind his head. At last Lemm came back and brought him a scrap of paper, on which Lisa had scribbled in pencil the following words: “We cannot meet to-day; perhaps, to-morrow evening. Good-bye.” Lavretsky thanked Lemm briefly and indifferently, and went home.

He found his wife at breakfast; Ada, in curl-papers, in a little white frock with blue ribbons, was eating her mutton cutlet. Varvara Pavlovna rose at once directly Lavretsky entered the room, and went to meet him with humility in her face. He asked her to follow him into the study, shut the door after them, and began to walk up and down; she sat down, modestly laying one hand over the other, and began to follow his movements with her eyes, which were still beautiful, though they were pencilled lightly under their lids.

For some time Lavretsky could not speak; he felt that he could not master himself, he saw clearly that Varvara Pavlovna was not in the least afraid of him, but was assuming an appearance of being ready to faint away in another instant.

“Listen, madam,” he began at last, breathing with difficulty and at moments setting his teeth: “it is useless for us to make pretense with one another; I don't believe in your penitence; and even if it were sincere, to be with you again, to live with you, would be impossible for me.”

Varvara Pavlovna bit her lips and half-closed her eyes. “It is aversion,” she thought; “all is over; in his eyes I am not even a woman.”

“Impossible,” repeated Lavretsky, fastening the top buttons of his coat. “I don't know what induced you to come here; I suppose you have come to the end of your money.”

“Ah! you hurt me!” whispered Varvara Pavlovna.

“However that may be – you are, any way, my wife, unhappily. I cannot drive you away . . . and this is the proposal I make you. You may to-day, if you like, set off to Lavriky, and live there; there is, as you know, a good house there; you will have everything you need in addition to your allowance . . . Do you agree?” – Varvara Pavlovna raised an embroidered handkerchief to her face.

“I have told you already,” she said, her lips twitching nervously, “that I will consent to whatever you think fit to do with me; at present it only remains for me to beg of you – will you allow me at least to thank you for your magnanimity?”

“No thanks, I beg – it is better without that,” Lavretsky said hurriedly. “So then,” he pursued, approaching the door, “I may reckon on – ”

“To-morrow I will be at Lavriky,” Varvara Pavlovna declared, rising respectfully from her place. “But Fedor Ivanitch – ” (She no longer called him “Theodore.”)

“What do you want?”

“I know, I have not yet gained any right to forgiveness; may I hope at least that with time – ”

“Ah, Varvara Pavlovna,” Lavretsky broke in, “you are a clever woman, but I too am not a fool; I know that you don't want forgiveness in the least. And I have forgiven you long ago; but there was always a great gulf between us.”

“I know how to submit,” rejoined Varvara Pavlovna, bowing her head. “I have not forgotten my sin; I should not have been surprised if I had learnt that you even rejoiced at the news of my death,” she added softly, slightly pointing with her hand to the copy of the journal which was lying forgotten by Lavretsky on the table.

Fedor Ivanitch started; the paper had been marked in pencil. Varvara Pavlovna gazed at him with still greater humility. She was superb at that moment. Her grey Parisian gown clung gracefully round her supple, almost girlish figure; her slender, soft neck, encircled by a white collar, her bosom gently stirred by her even breathing, her hands innocent of bracelets and rings – her whole figure, from her shining hair to the tip of her just visible little shoe, was so artistic . . .

Lavretsky took her in with a glance of hatred; scarcely could he refrain from crying: “Bravo!” scarcely could he refrain from felling her with a blow of his fist on her shapely head – and he turned on his heel. An hour later he had started for Vassilyevskoe, and two hours later Varvara Pavlovna had bespoken the best carriage in the town, had put on a simple straw hat with a black veil, and a modest mantle, given Ada into the charge of Justine, and set off to the Kalitins'. From the inquiries she had made among the servants, she had learnt that her husband went to see them every day.

Chapter XXXVIII

The day of the arrival of Lavretsky's wife at the town of O – – -, a sorrowful day for him, and been also a day of misery for Lisa. She had not had time to go down-stairs and say good-morning to her mother, when the tramp of hoofs was heard under the window, and with a secret dismay she saw Panshin riding into the courtyard. “He has come so early for a final explanation,” she thought, and she was not mistaken. After a turn in the drawing-room, he suggested that she should go with him into the garden, and then asked her for the decision of his fate. Lisa summoned up all her courage and told him that she could not be his wife. He heard her to the end, standing on one side of her and pulling his hat down over his forehead; courteously, but in a changed voice, he asked her, “Was this her last word, and had he given her any ground for such a change in her views?” – then pressed his hand to his eyes, sighed softly and abruptly, and took his head away from his face again.

“I did not want to go along the beaten track,” he said huskily. “I wanted to choose a wife according to the dictates of my heart; but it seems this was not to be. Farewell, fond dream!” He made Lisa a profound bow, and went back into the house.

She hoped that he would go away at once; but he went into Marya Dmitrievna's room and remained nearly an hour with her. As he came out, he said to Lisa: “Votre mere vous appelle; adieu a jamais,” . . . mounted his horse, and set off at full trot from the very steps. Lisa went in to Marya Dmitrievna and found her in tears; Panshin had informed her of his ill-luck.

“Do you want to be the death of me? Do you want to be the death of me?” was how the disconsolate widow began her lamentations. “Whom do you want? Wasn't he good enough for you? A kammer-junker! not interesting! He might have married any Maid of Honour he liked in Petersburg. And I – I had so hoped for it! Is it long that you have changed towards him? How has this misfortune come on us, – it cannot have come of itself! Is it that dolt of a cousin's doing? A nice person you have picked up to advise you!”

“And he, poor darling,” Marya Dmitrievna went on, “how respectful he is, how attentive even in his sorrow! He has promised not to desert me. Ah, I can never bear that! Ah, my head aches fit to split! Send me Palashka. You will be the death of me, if you don't think better of it, – do you hear?”

And, calling her twice an ungrateful girl, Marya Dmitrievna dismissed her.

She went to her own room. But she had not had time to recover from her interviews with Panshin and her mother before another storm broke over head, and this time from a quarter from which she would least have expected it. Marfa Timofyevna came into her room, and at once slammed the door after her. The old lady's face was pale, her cap was awry, her eyes were flashing, and her hands and lips were trembling. Lisa was astonished; she had never before seen her sensible and reasonable aunt in such a condition.

“A pretty thing, miss,” Marfa Timofyevna began in a shaking and broken whisper, “a pretty thing! Who taught you such ways, I should like to know, miss? . . . Give me some water; I can't speak.”

“Calm yourself, auntie, what is the matter?” said Lisa, giving her a glass of water. “Why, I thought you did not think much of Mr. Panshin yourself.”

Marfa Timofyevna pushed away the glass.

“I can't drink; I shall knock my last teeth out if I try to. What's Panshin to do with it? Why bring Panshin in? You had better tell me who has taught you to make appointments at night – eh? miss?”

Lisa turned pale.

“Now, please, don't try to deny it,” pursued Marfa Timofyevna; “Shurotchka herself saw it all and told me. I have had to forbid her chattering, but she is not a liar.”

“I don't deny it, auntie,” Lisa uttered scarcely audibly.

“Ah, ah! That's it, is it, miss; you made an appointment with him, that old sinner, who seems so meek?”

“No.”

“How then?”

“I went down into the drawing-room for a book; he was in the garden – and he called me.”

“And you went? A pretty thing! So you love him, eh?”

“I love him,” answered Lisa softly.

“Merciful Heavens! She loves him!” Marfa Timofyevna snatched off her cap. “She loves a married man! Ah! she loves him.”

“He told me” . . .began Lisa.

“What has he told you, the scoundrel, eh?”

“He told me that his wife was dead.”

Marfa Timofyevna crossed herself. “Peace be with her,” she muttered; “she was a vain hussy, God forgive her. So, then, he's a widower, I suppose. And he's losing no time, I see. He has buried one wife and now he's after another. He's a nice person: only let me tell you one thing, niece; in my day, when I was young, harm came to young girls from such goings on. Don't be angry with me, my girl, only fools are angry at the truth. I have given orders not to admit him to-day. I love him, but I shall never forgive him for this. Upon my word, a widower! Give me some water. But as for your sending Panshin about his business, I think you're a first-rate girl for that. Only don't you go sitting of nights with any animals of that sort; don't break my old heart, or else you'll see I'm not all fondness – I can bite too . . . a widower!”

Marfa Timofyevna went off, and Lisa sat down in a corner and began to cry. There was bitterness in her soul. She had not deserved such humiliation. Love had proved no happiness to her: she was weeping for a second time since yesterday evening. This new unexpected feeling had only just arisen in her heart, and already what a heavy price she had paid for it, how coarsely had strange hands touched her sacred secret. She felt ashamed, and bitter, and sick; but she had no doubt and no dread – and Lavretsky was dearer to her than ever. She had hesitated while she did not understand herself; but after that meeting, after that kiss – she could hesitate no more: she knew that she loved, and now she loved honestly and seriously, she was bound firmly for all her life, and she did not fear reproaches. She felt that by no violence could they break that bond.

Chapter XXXIX

Marya Dmitrievna was much agitated when she received the announcement of the arrival of Varvara Pavlovna Lavretsky, she did not even know whether to receive her; she was afraid of giving offence to Fedor Ivanitch. At last curiosity prevailed. “Why,” she reflected, “she too is a relation,” and, taking up her position in an arm-chair, she said to the footman, “Show her in.” A few moments passed; the door opened, Varvara Pavlovna swiftly and with scarcely audible steps, approached Marya Dmitrievna, and not allowing her to rise from her chair, bent almost on her knees before her.

“I thank you, dear aunt,” she began in a soft voice full of emotion, speaking Russian; “I thank you; I did not hope for such condescension on your part; you are an angel of goodness.”

As she uttered these words Varvara Pavlovna quite unexpectedly took possession of one of Marya Dmitrievna's hands, and pressing it lightly in her pale lavender gloves, she raised it in a fawning way to her full rosy lips. Marya Dmitrievna quite lost her head, seeing such a handsome and charmingly dressed woman almost at her feet. She did not know where she was. And she tried to withdraw her hand, while, at the same time, she was inclined to make her sit down, and to say something affectionate to her. She ended by raising Varvara Pavlovna and kissing her on her smooth perfumed brow.

Varvara Pavlovna was completely overcome by this kiss.

“How do you do, bonjour,” said Marya Dmitrievna. “Of course I did not expect . . . but, of course, I am glad to see you. You understand, my dear, it's not for me to judge between man and wife” . . .

“My husband is in the right in everything,” Varvara Pavlovna interposed; “I alone am to blame.”

“That is a very praiseworthy feeling” rejoined Marya Dmitrievna, “very. Have you been here long? Have you seen him? But sit down, please.”

“I arrived yesterday,” answered Varvara Pavlovna, sitting down meekly. “I have seen Fedor Ivanitch; I have talked with him.”

“Ah! Well, and how was he?”

“I was afraid my sudden arrival would provoke his anger,” continued Varvara Pavlovna, “but he did not refuse to see me.”

“That is to say, he did not . . . Yes, yes, I understand,” commented Marya Dmitrievna. “He is only a little rough on the surface, but his heart is soft.”

Fedor Ivanitch has not forgiven me; he would not hear me. But he was so good as to assign me Lavriky as a place of residence.”

“Ah! a splendid estate!”

“I am setting off there to-morrow in fulfilment of his wish; but I esteemed it a duty to visit you first.”

“I am very, very much obliged to you, my dear. Relations ought never to forget one another. And do you know I am surprised how well you speak Russian. C'est etonnant.”

Varvara Pavlovna sighed.

“I have been too long abroad, Marya Dmitrievna, I know that; but my heart has always been Russian, and I have not forgotten my country.”

“Ah, ah; that is good. Fedor Ivanitch did not, however, expect you at all. Yes; you may trust my experience, la patri avant tout. Ah, show me, if you please-what a charming mantle you have.”

“Do you like it?” Varvara Pavlovna slipped it quickly off her shoulders; “it is a very simple little thing from Madame Baudran.”

“One can see it at once. From Madame Baudran? How sweet, and what taste! I am sure you have brought a number of fascinating things with you. If I could only see them.”

“All my things are at your service, dearest auntie. If you permit, I can show some patterns to your maid. I have a woman with me from Paris – a wonderfully clever dressmaker.”

“You are very good, my dear. But, really, I am ashamed” . . .

“Ashamed!” repeated Varvara Pavlovna reproachfully. “If you want to make me happy, dispose of me as if I were your property.”

Marya Dmitrievna was completely melted.

“Vous etes charmante,” she said. “But why don't you take off your hat and gloves?”

“What? you will allow me?” asked Varvara Pavlovna, and slightly, as though with emotion, clasped her hands.

“Of course, you will dine with us, I hope. I – I will introduce you to my daughter.” Marya Dmitrievna was a little confused. “Well! we are in for it! here goes!” she thought. “She is not very well to-day.”

“O ma tante, how good you are!” cried Varvara Pavlovna, and she raised her handkerchief to her eyes.

A page announced the arrival of Gedeonovsky. The old gossip came in bowing and smiling. Marya Dmitrievna presented him to her visitor. He was thrown into confusion for the first moment; but Varvara Pavlovna behaved with such coquettish respectfulness to him, that his ears began to tingle, and gossip, slander, and civility dropped like honey from his lips. Varvara Pavlovna listened to him with a restrained smile and began by degrees to talk herself. She spoke modestly of Paris, of her travels, of Baden; twice she made Marya Dmitrievna laugh, and each time she sighed a little afterwards, and seemed to be inwardly reproaching herself for misplaced levity. She obtained permission to bring Ada; taking off her gloves, with her smooth hands, redolent of soap a la guimauve, she showed how and where flounces were worn and ruches and lace and rosettes. She promised to bring a bottle of the new English scent, Victoria Essence; and was as happy as a child when Marya Dmitrievna consented to accept it as a gift. She was moved to tears over the recollection of the emotion she experienced, when, for the first time, she heard the Russian bells. “They went so deeply to my heart,” she explained.

At that instant Lisa came in.

Ever since the morning, from the very instant when, chill with horror, she had read Lavretsky's note, Lisa had been preparing herself for the meeting with his wife. She had a presentiment that she would see her. She resolved not to avoid her, as a punishment of her, as she called them, sinful hopes. The sudden crisis in her destiny had shaken her to the foundations. In some two hours her face seemed to have grown thin. But she did not shed a single tear. “It's what I deserve!” she said to herself, repressing with difficulty and dismay some bitter impulses of hatred which frightened her in her soul. “Well, I must go down!” she thought directly she heard of Madame Lavretsky's arrival, and she went down . . . . She stood a long while at the drawing-room door before she could summon up courage to open it. With the thought, “I have done her wrong,” she crossed the threshold and forced herself to look at her, forced herself to smile. Varvara Pavlovna went to meet her directly she caught sight of her, and bowed to her slightly, but still respectfully. “Allow me to introduce myself,” she began in an insinuating voice, “your maman is so indulgent to me that I hope that you too will be . . . good to me.” The expression of Varvara Pavlovna, when she uttered these last words, cold and at the same time soft, her hypocritical smile, the action of her hands, and her shoulders, her very dress, her whole being aroused such a feeling of repulsion in Lisa that she could make no reply to her, and only held out her hand with an effort. “This young lady disdains me,” thought Varvara Pavlovna, warmly pressing Lisa's cold fingers, and turning to Marya Dmitrievna, she observed in an undertone, “mais elle est delicieuse!” Lisa faintly flushed; she heard ridicule, insult in this exclamation. But she resolved not to trust her impressions, and sat down by the window at her embroidery-frame. Even here Varvara Pavlovna did not leave her in peace. She began to admire her taste, her skill . . . . Lisa's heart beat violently and painfully. She could scarcely control herself, she could scarcely sit in her place. It seemed to her that Varvara Pavlovna knew all, and was mocking at her in secret triumph. To her relief, Gedeonovsky began to talk to Varvara Pavlovna, and drew off her attention. Lisa bent over her frame, and secretly watched her. “That woman,” she thought, “was loved by him.” But she at once drove away the very thought of Lavretsky; she was afraid of losing her control over herself, she felt that her head was going round. Marya Dmitrievna began to talk of music.

“I have heard, my dear,” she began, “that you are a wonderful performer.”

“It is long since I have played,” replied Varvara Pavlovna, seating herself without delay at the piano, and running her fingers smartly over the keys. “Do you wish it?”

“If you will be so kind.”

Varvara Pavlovna played a brilliant and difficult etude by Hertz very correctly. She had great power and execution.

“Sylphide!” cried Gedeonovsky.

“Marvellous!” Marya Dmitrievna chimed in. “Well, Varvara Pavlovna, I confess,” she observed, for the first time calling her by her name, “you have astonished me; you might give concerts. We have a musician here, an old German, a queer fellow, but a very clever musician. he gives Lisa lessons. He will be simply crazy over you.”

“Lisaveta Mihalovna is also musical?” asked Varvara Pavlovna, turning her head slightly towards her.

“Yes, she plays fairly, and is fond of music; but what is that beside you? But there is one young man here too – with whom we must make you acquainted. He is an artist in soul, and composes very charmingly. He alone will be able to appreciate you fully.”

“A young man?” said Varvara Pavlovna: “Who is he? Some poor man?”

“Oh dear no, our chief beau, and not only among us – et a Petersbourg. A kammer-junker, and received in the best society. You must have heard of him: Panshin, Vladimir Nikolaitch. He is here on a government commission . . . future minister, I daresay!”

“And an artist?”

“An artist at heart, and so well-bred. You shall see him. He has been here very often of late: I invited him for this evening; I hope he will come,” added Marya Dmitrievna with a gentle sigh, and an oblique smile of bitterness.

Lisa knew the meaning of this smile, but it was nothing to her now.

“And young?” repeated Varvara Pavlovna, lightly modulating from tone to tone.

“Twenty-eight, and of the most prepossessing appearance. Un jeune homme acompli, indeed.”

“An exemplary young man, one may say,” observed Gedeonovsky.

Varvara Pavlovna began suddenly playing a noisy waltz of Strauss, opening with such a loud and rapid trill that Gedeonovsky was quite startled. In the very middle of the waltz she suddenly passed into a pathetic motive, and finished up with an air from “Lucia” Fra poco . . . She reflected that lively music was not in keeping with her position. The air from “Lucia,” with emphasis on the sentimental passages, moved Marya Dmitrievna greatly.

“What soul!” she observed in an undertone to Gedeonovsky.

“A sylphide!” repeated Gedeonovsky, raising his eyes towards heaven.

The dinner hour arrived. Marfa Timofyevna came down from up-stairs, when the soup was already on the table. She treated Varvara Pavlovna very drily, replied in half-sentences to her civilities, and did not look at her. Varvara Pavlovna soon realised that there was nothing to be got out of this old lady, and gave up trying to talk to her. To make up for this, Marya Dmitrievna became still more cordial to her guest; her aunt's discourtesy irritated her. Marfa Timofyevna, however, did not only avoid looking at Varvara Pavlovna; she did not look at Lisa either, though her eyes seemed literally blazing. She sat as though she were of stone, yellow and pale, her lips compressed, and ate nothing. Lisa seemed calm; and in reality, her heart was more at rest, a strange apathy, the apathy of the condemned had come upon her. At dinner Varvara Pavlovna spoke little; she seemed to have grown timid again, and her countenance was overspread with an expression of modest melancholy. Gedeonovsky alone enlivened the conversation with his tales, though he constantly looked timorously towards Marfa Timofyevna and coughed – he was always overtaken by a fit of coughing when he was going to tell a lie in her presence – but she did not hinder him by any interruption. After dinner it seemed that Varvara Pavlovna was quite devoted to preference; at this Marya Dmitrievna was so delighted that she felt quite overcome, and thought to herself, “Really, what a fool Fedor Ivanitch must be; not able to appreciate a woman like this!”

She sat down to play cards together with her and Gedeonovsky, and Marfa Timofyevna led Lisa away up-stairs with her, saying that she looked shocking, and that she must certainly have a headache.

“Yes, she has an awful headache,” observed Marya Dmitrievna, turning to Varvara Pavlovna and rolling her eyes, “I myself have often just such sick headaches.”

“Really!” rejoined Varvara Pavlovna.

Lisa went into her aunt's room, and sank powerless into a chair. Marfa Timofyevna gazed long at her in silence, slowly she knelt down before her – and began still in the same silence to kiss her hands alternately. Lisa bent forward, crimsoning – and began to weep, but she did not make Marfa Timofyevna get up, she did not take away her hands, she felt that she had not the right to take them away, that she had not the right to hinder the old lady from expressing her penitence, and her sympathy, from begging forgiveness for what had passed the day before. And Marfa Timofyevna could not kiss enough those poor, pale, powerless hands, and silent tears flowed from her eyes and from Lisa's; while the cat Matross purred in the wide arm-chair among the knitting wool, and the long flame of the little lamp faintly stirred and flickered before the holy picture. In the next room, behind the door, stood Nastasya Karpovna, and she too was furtively wiping her eyes with her check pocket-handkerchief rolled up in a ball.