The affixed piece of paper will explain everything to you. Incidentally, I will tell you that I found it quite unlike you – you, who are always so careful – to be dropping such important papers. [This phrase the wretched Lavretsky had pondered and pored over for several hours.] I cannot see you any more; I presume that you also have no need to see me. I assign you 15,000 francs a year; I cannot give more. Send your address to the estate office. Do what you like, live wherever you please. I wish you happiness. There is no need for an answer.
Lavretsky wrote to his wife that there was no need for an answer… but he waited, thirsted for an answer, for an explanation of this incomprehensible, inexplicable matter. That very same day Varvara Pavlovna sent him a long letter in French. It was the final blow; his last doubts vanished – and he felt ashamed that he had still entertained doubts. Varvara Pavlovna did not attempt to justify herself; she wished only to see him and begged him not to condemn her irrevocably. The letter was cold and strained, although in places there were traces of tears. Lavretsky gave a bitter smile and ordered the messenger to say that everything was quite all right. Three days later he had left Paris, though he travelled not to Russia but to Italy. He did not know precisely why he chose Italy; it didn’t matter to him in essence where he went – so long as it wasn’t home. He sent instructions to his bailiff about his wife’s allowance, simultaneously ordering him immediately to take over the affairs of the estate from General Korobyn, without waiting for the accounts to be made up, and to arrange for His Excellency’s departure from Lavriki; he painted a lively picture for himself of the confusion and majestic bewilderment of the expelled general and, despite all his grief, experienced a certain malicious satisfaction. Then he wrote to Glafira Petrovna asking her to return to Lavriki and sent off a power of attorney in her name; Glafira Petrovna did not return to Lavriki and herself had printed in the newspapers a statement about the annulment of the power of attorney, which was completely unnecessary. Taking refuge in a small Italian town, Lavretsky was unable to refrain for a long time from following the doings of his wife. From the papers he learned that she had left Paris, as arranged, for Baden-Baden; her name soon appeared in a little notice signed by the same M. Jules. Through the usual playfulness of this notice emerged a kind of amicable condolence; intense repugnance filled Fyodor Ivanych’s soul when he read it. Later he learned that a daughter had been born; in a couple of months he received news from his bailiff that Varvara Pavlovna had asked for the first third of her allowance. Later ever-worsening rumours became current; finally all the journals noised about a tragi-comic story in which his wife played an unenviable role. Everything was over: Varvara Pavlovna had become a ‘notoriety’.
Lavretsky stopped following his wife’s doings, but he could not come to terms so quickly with himself. Sometimes such nostalgia for his wife possessed him that it seemed he would give up everything, even perhaps… even perhaps would forgive her, if only to hear once again her caressing voice, to feel once again her hand in his. Time, however, did not pass in vain. He was not born for suffering; his healthy nature exerted its rights. Much became clear to him; the very blow that had stunned him seemed no longer unforeseen to him; he understood his wife – you only understand someone close to you fully when you’ve parted from that person. He could again occupy himself and work, although not with anything like the former zeal: a scepticism, nurtured by experience of life and by his education, had finally taken root in his soul. He became quite indifferent to everything. About four years passed and he felt himself strong enough to return to his native land and meet again his own people. Stopping neither in St Petersburg nor in Moscow, he arrived in the town of O… where we parted from him and where we now ask the benevolent reader to return with us.
XVII
THE next morning, after the day previously described by us, at about ten o’clock, Lavretsky was ascending the steps to the porch of the Kalitin house. Liza met him as she came out with hat and gloves.
‘Where are you off to?’ he asked her.
‘To Mass. Today is Sunday.’
‘Do you really go to Mass?’
Liza looked at him in silence, astonished.
‘Forgive me, please,’ said Lavretsky, ‘I… I didn’t mean that. I came to say good-bye to you because I’m leaving for the country in an hour.’
‘Surely it’s not far away, is it?’ asked Liza.
‘Fifteen odd miles.’
Lenochka appeared in the doorway in the company of a servant.
‘Take care you don’t forget us,’ said Liza and descended the steps from the porch.
‘And don’t you forget me. Listen,’ he added,’ since you’re going to church, say a prayer for me, too.’
Liza stopped and turned to him.
‘Certainly,’ she said, looking him straight in the face, ‘I’ll say a prayer for you, too. Come on, Lenochka.’
In the drawing-room Lavretsky found Marya Dmitrievna all by herself. She smelt of eau-de-cologne and mint. She explained that she had a headache and had spent a restless night. She received him with her customary languid amiability and by degrees entered into conversation.
‘Isn’t it true’, she asked him, ‘that Vladimir Nikolaich is such a pleasant young man?’
‘Who is this Vladimir Nikolaich?’
‘Panshin, of course, the one who was here yesterday. He was awfully taken by you. I’ll tell you in confidence, mon cher cousin, that he is simply out of his mind about my Liza. And what’s wrong with that? He’s of good family, excellent at his work, clever, with a post at court, you know, and if it’s God’s will… I, for my part, as a mother, will be very glad. It’s a big responsibility, of course; of course, it’s upon the parents that the children’s happiness depends, and it should be said too that, whether for better or for worse, I’ve had to do everything, I’ve been the only one – bringing the children up and teaching them, I’ve had to do it all…. I’ve only this minute been writing to Mrs Bolyus for a French governess….’
Marya Dmitrievna embarked on a recital of her worries, her endeavours and her maternal feelings. Lavretsky heard her in silence and turned his hat in his hands. His cold heavy gaze embarrassed the loquacious lady.
‘And how does Liza strike you?’ she asked.
‘Lizaveta Mikhaylovna is a very fine girl,’ Lavretsky answered, rose, bowed his way out of the room and went off to Marfa Timofeyevna’s. Marya Dmitrievna looked after his retreating figure with dissatisfaction and thought: ‘What a fat seal the man is, a regular peasant! Now I understand why his wife couldn’t remain faithful to him.’
Marfa Timofeyevna sat in her room, surrounded by her retainers. They consisted of five beings who were almost all equally close to her heart: a fat-cropped trained bullfinch, whom she loved because he had forgotten how to whistle and draw water, a small, very frightened and quiet dog named Roska, a bad-tempered tom cat named Sailor, a swarthy fidgety little girl of nine, with enormous eyes and a sharp little nose, who was called Shurochka, and an elderly lady of fifty-five dressed in a white bonnet and a short brown jacket over a dark dress, by name Nastasya Karpovna Ogarkova. Shurochka was an orphan child of lower-middle-class parentage. Marfa Timofeyevna had taken her in out of pity, as she had taken in Roska as well: she had found both the dog and the girl out on the street; both were thin and hungry, both were soaked to the skin by the autumn rain; nobody came after Roska, and Shurochka was even gladly surrendered to Marfa Timofeyevna by her uncle, a drunken shoemaker, who did not have the wherewithal to feed himself and used his last to hit his niece over the head rather than to feed her. With Nastasya Karpovna Marfa Timofeyevna struck up an acquaintance during a visit to a monastery; she had gone up to her in church (Marfa Timofeyevna took a liking to her because, in her own words, she so much enjoyed the taste of her prayers), struck up a conversation with her and invited her back to her room for a cup of tea. From that day on they had become inseparable. Nastasya Karpovna was a woman of the happiest and most modest disposition, a wido
w and childless, of poor noble extraction; she had a round head of grey hair, soft white hands, a soft face with large kindly features and a rather funny turned-up nose; she worshipped Marfa Timofeyevna, and the latter was very fond of her, although she used to make fun of her soft heart: she had a soft spot for all young people and couldn’t stop herself from blushing like a girl at the most innocent of jokes. Her entire modest capital consisted of 1,200 roubles in notes; she lived at Marfa Timofeyevna’s expense, but on an equal footing with her; Marfa Timofeyevna would not stand for any kind of subservience.
‘Ah! Fedya!’ she began as soon as she saw him. ‘Yesterday evening you didn’t see my family – take a look at them now. We’re all gathered here for tea; this is our second, our Sunday tea. You can stroke all of them, except that Shurochka won’t let you and the cat’ll scratch. You’re off today?’
‘Today.’ Lavretsky took a seat on a low stool. ‘I’ve already said good-bye to Marya Dmitrievna. I’ve also seem Lizaveta Mikhaylovna.’
‘Call her Liza, there’s a good chap; since when is she Mikhaylovna to you? And do sit quietly, otherwise you’ll break Shurochka’s chair.’
‘She was going to Mass,’ Lavretsky continued. ‘She isn’t religious, is she?’
‘Yes, Fedya, she’s very religious. More than you and I are.’
‘But you’re religious, aren’t you?’ remarked Nastasya Karpovna lispingly. ‘You didn’t go to the early service, but you’ll be going to evensong.’
‘No, I shan’t – you go by yourself. I’m feeling lazy, my dear,’ replied Marfa Timofeyevna, ‘and I’ve been letting myself drink too much tea.’ She addressed Nastasya Karpovna with the familiar ‘thou’ even though she lived with her on an equal footing. She wasn’t a Pestov for nothing: three of them had been put to death by Ivan the Terrible1; Marfa Timofeyevna knew that only too well.
‘Tell me, please,’ Lavretsky began again, ‘Marya Dmitrievna was talking to me just now about that – what’s his name? – Panshin. What sort of a man is he?’
‘What a chatterbox she is, the Lord forgive her!’ complained Marfa Timofeyevna. ‘Probably she informed you in confidence what a fine – well – a fine suitor’s turned up. She could’ve whispered all this to her priest’s son, but no, that’s evidently not enough for her. Nothing’s happened for sure yet – and praise be to God for that! – but she’s already gossiping.’
‘Why praise be to God for it?’ asked Lavretsky.
‘Because I don’t like the fine fellow; and what’s so marvellous about it, anyhow?’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘He can’t captivate everyone, that’s all. It’s enough for him that Nastasya Karpovna’s fallen in love with him.’
The poor widow was utterly confounded.
‘What’re you saying, Marfa Timofeyevna! Have you no fear of God!’ she exclaimed, and a hectic flush spread instantly over her face and neck.
‘And he knows, the rascal does,’ Marfa Timofeyevna interrupted her, ‘he knows what to flatter her with: he’s given her a little snuff-box. Fedya, ask her for some snuff and you’ll see what a splendid snuff-box it is: the lid’s decorated with a hussar on horseback. You’d better not try to explain it all away, my dear.’
Nastasya Karpovna could only flutter her hands in confusion.
‘Well, and Liza,’ asked Lavretsky, ‘is she indifferent to him?’
‘She’s fond of him, it seems, but then God alone knows what she really feels! Another’s heart is like a dark forest, you know, especially a young girl’s. Take Shurochka’s – just you try and make that out! Why’s she been hiding herself away and not gone out since you arrived?’
Shurochka gave a snort of suppressed laughter and skipped out of the room just as Lavretsky rose from his place.
‘Yes,’ he said, pausing between the words, ‘there’s no accounting for a young girl’s heart.’
He began to say good-bye.
‘So? Will we be seeing you soon?’ asked Marfa Timofeyevna.
‘As the occasion arises, auntie: it’s not far away, after all.’
‘Yes, of course, you’re going to Vasilyevskoye. You don’t want to live in Lavriki – well, that’s your business. Only be sure to pay a visit to your mother’s grave, and to your grandmother’s while you’re about it. You must’ve picked up a lot of learning over there, in foreign countries, and – who knows – perhaps they’ll feel in their graves that you’ve come to visit them. And don’t forget, Fedya, to have a service said for Glafira Petrovna; here’s a rouble. Take it, take it, it’s because I want to have a service said for her. I didn’t love her when she was alive, but there’s no denying she was a woman with a character. A clever one, she was, and she didn’t treat you badly. But now be off with you in God’s name, or I’ll be boring you to tears.’
And Marfa Timofeyevna embraced her nephew.
‘Liza won’t be marrying Panshin, don’t you worry; he’s not the sort of husband she deserves.’
‘I don’t worry in the least,’ answered Lavretsky and took his leave.
XVIII
FOUR hours later he was on his way home. His tarantass bowled briskly along the soft surface of a country road. There had been dry weather for a couple of weeks; a faint mist pervaded the air like milk and hid the far woods; it had a fragrance of burning. A mass of darkling clouds with vaguely defined edges crawled across the pale blue sky; a fairly strong breeze hurried in a dry uninterrupted stream over the land, but did not disperse the heat. Laying his head back on a cushion and folding his arms, Lavretsky gazed at the rows of fields which passed in a fan-wise movement, at the willows which slowly passed into and out of sight, at the stupid rooks and crows which looked out of the corners of their eyes in dull suspiciousness at the passing carriage, at the long boundaries between the fields overgrown with ragwort, wormwood and field rowans; he gazed… and this fresh, lush nakedness and wilderness of the steppe, this greenery, these long low hills, the ravines with their ground-hugging clumps of oak trees, the grey little villages, the flowing shapes of birches – the whole of this picture of Russia, which he had not seen for so long, evoked in him sweet and simultaneously anguished feelings and oppressed his heart with a kind of pleasant sadness. His thoughts took a slow wandering course; their outlines were as vague and troubled as the outlines of those high and also seemingly wandering clouds. He recalled his childhood, his mother, recalled how, as she lay dying, they had brought him to her and how she, pressing his head to her breast, had just begun a feeble lamenting over him, but had glanced up at Glafira Petrovna – and stopped. He remembered his father, at first hale and hearty, dissatisfied with everything, speaking in his brassy voice, and then blind and querulous, with an untidy grey beard; he remembered how once at table, having drunk a glass too much of wine and spilt the gravy over his napkin, his father had suddenly burst out laughing and begun, winking his sightless eyes and blushing, to speak of his conquests; he remembered Varvara Pavlovna – and winced despite himself, as a man winces from a momentary internal pain, and shook his head. Then his thoughts concentrated on Liza.
‘Here,’ he thought, ‘is a new being just entering on life. A splendid girl, what will she make of herself? She is good-looking. A pale, fresh-complexioned face, such serious eyes and mouth, and a look of honesty and innocence. It’s a pity that she seems a little too serious-minded. She has a splendid figure, walks so lightly and has a quiet voice. I like it very much when she suddenly stops, listens attentively without smiling, becomes thoughtful and tosses back her hair. It occurs to me that Panshin is not worthy of her. And yet what’s wrong with him? Still, what am I dreaming like this for? She’ll run along the same primrose path they all run along. I’d better go to sleep.’ And Lavretsky closed his eyes.
He was unable to sleep, but he sank into a drowsy travel-weary numbness. Images of the past rose as before, unhurriedly, and floated into his mind’s eye, mingling and becoming confused with other memories. Lavretsky, God knows why, began to think about Robert
Peel, about the history of France, about how he would have won a battle if he had been a general; he imagined the gunfire and the shouting…. His head slid sideways and he opened his eyes…. The same fields, the same views of the steppe; the well-worn hooves of the trace-horses flickered one after another through the waves of dust; the driver’s shirt, yellow, with red gussets, bellied in the wind…. ‘Much good being like this when I’m returning home,’ Lavretsky thought in a flash, and he cried out: ‘Get along there!’ and drew his cloak more tightly round him and pressed his head back all the more firmly into the cushion. The tarantass gave a jolt: Lavretsky straightened up and opened his eyes wide. Before him on a rise in the land stretched a small village; a little to the right could be seen an antiquated manor house with closed shutters and a crooked little entrance porch; the broad courtyard, right up to the very gates, was overgrown with nettles as green and thick as hemp; there also stood a small barn, built stoutly of oak. This was Vasilyevskoye.
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