Home of the Gentry

by Ivan Turgenev

  XLIII

  MARYA DMITRIEVNA was alone in her study, sitting in a Voltairean armchair and sniffing eau-de-cologne; a glass of orange-flower water stood on a little table beside her. She was in an excitable state and seemed to be frightened of something.

  Lavretsky entered.

  ‘You wished to see me,’ he said, coldly bowing.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marya Dmitrievna and drank a little of the water. ‘I learned that you had gone straight up to auntie’s room; I said that you should be asked to come and see me: I have something to discuss with you. Please sit down.’ Marya Dmitrievna drew a deep breath. ‘You know,’ she went on, ‘that your wife has arrived.’

  ‘That is known to me,’ said Lavretsky.

  ‘Yes, well, what I meant was: she has come to me and I have received her; now this is what I want to talk to you about, Fyodor Ivanych. I, thank God, have earned, I can say, universal respect and I will not do something improper for anything in the world. Although I foresaw that it would not be pleasant for you, I could not resolve to refuse her, Fyodor Ivanych; she is related to me – through you; appreciate my position, what right had I to refuse her entry to my house? Do you agree?’

  ‘You are worrying unnecessarily, Marya Dmitrievna,’ Lavretsky answered. ‘You behaved quite correctly; I am not in the least angry. I have no intention of depriving Varvara Pavlovna of the opportunity to see her friends; I did not come to you today simply because I did not wish to meet her, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah, I am so pleased to hear that from you, Fyodor Ivanych,’ cried Marya Dmitrievna. ‘However, I have always expected you to have noble feelings. But that I am worried is not surprising, for I am a woman and a mother. And your wife… of course, I cannot judge you and her and I told her as much myself… but she is such a charming person that she doesn’t seem capable of giving anything save pleasure.’

  Lavretsky gave a wry smile and played with his hat.

  ‘And I have something more to tell you, Fyodor Ivanych,’ continued Marya Dmitrievna, moving slightly closer to him, ‘– if only you’d seen how modestly she behaved, how respectfully! Truly, it was even touching. And if you’d heard what she said about you! I am wholly to blame, she said; I did not know how to appreciate him, she said; he’s an angel, not a man, she said. Truly, that is just what she said: an angel. Her repentance is such that… God is my witness, I’ve never seen such repentance!’

  ‘Is it true, Marya Dmitrievna,’ said Lavretsky, ‘allow me to inquire, that Varvara Pavlovna has been singing in your house, that she has been singing during her period of repentance? Or what was it?’

  ‘Ah, you ought to be ashamed of what you’re saying! She sang and played simply to do me a favour, because I insisted she should, almost ordered her to. I saw that things were so hard for her, so very hard; I wondered how to distract her – and I’d heard that she had such a splendid talent! Believe me, Fyodor Ivanych, she is quite shattered, ask Sergey Petrovich if you like – a broken woman, tout à fait. So how can you ask such a question?’

  Lavretsky simply shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Then again, what a little angel your Ada is, what a charmer! How delightful she is, what a clever little thing! How well she speaks French, and she understands Russian – she called me auntie! And you know, she’s not in the least shy, like most children of her age – not in the least. She looks so like you, Fyodor Ivanych, it’s quite terrifying. Her eyes, her brows… well, they’re you, just like yours. I confess I’m not very fond of such little children, but I’ve simply lost my heart to your little daughter.’

  ‘Marya Dmitrievna,’ Lavretsky suddenly said, ‘allow me to ask you why you’ve been good enough to say all this to me?’

  ‘Why?’ Marya Dmitrievna again sniffed the eau-de-cologne and took a sip of water. ‘I say this, Fyodor Ivanych, because… I am, after all, related to you, I take the closest interest in you…. I know you have the kindest of hearts. Listen, mon cousin, I am a woman of experience and I won’t go on wasting breath! Forgive her, forgive your wife.’ Marya Dmitrievna’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘Just think: youth, inexperience… well, perhaps a bad example: she didn’t have the kind of mother who could put her on the right path. Forgive her, Fyodor Ivanych, she has been punished enough.’

  Tears began to run down Marya Dmitrievna’s cheeks; she did not wipe them away: she loved crying. Lavretsky sat as if on live coals. ‘My God,’ he thought, ‘what torture this is, what a day this has turned out to be for me!’

  ‘You don’t answer,’ Marya Dmitrievna began again. ‘How should I take that? Can you be so cruel? No, I don’t want to believe that. I feelthat my words have convinced you. Fyodor Ivanych, God will reward you for your kindness, and now accept your wife from my hands…’

  Lavretsky involuntarily rose from his chair; Marya Dmitrievna also stood up and, going briskly behind a screen, led Varvara Pavlovna out from behind it. Pale, half-alive, with lowered eyes, she seemed to have abdicated all thoughts of her own, all will-power – and to have given herself over wholly into Marya Dmitrievna’s hands.

  Lavretsky took a step back.

  ‘You were here!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t blame her,’ Marya Dmitrievna said hurriedly, ‘she didn’t want to stay at all, but I ordered her to stay and it was I who put her behind the screen. She assured me that it would make you even angrier; I wouldn’t listen to her; I know you better than she does. Accept your wife from my hands. Go on, Varya, don’t be frightened, get on your knees to your husband’ (she pulled her by the arm) ‘ – and my blessing…’

  ‘Stop, Marya Dmitrievna,’ Lavretsky interrupted her in a hollow but impressive voice. ‘No doubt you’re fond of emotional scenes’ (Lavretsky was not mistaken: since her schooldays Marya Dmitrievna had retained a passion for theatricality); ‘they amuse you; but others may come out of them badly. However, I don’t intend to talk to you: in this scene you’re not the principal character. What do you want from me, madam?’ he added, turning to his wife. ‘Haven’t I done what I can for you? Don’t retort that you were not the one who contrived this meeting – I won’t believe you, and you know I can’t believe you. What do you want? You’re clever. You don’t do anything without a purpose. You must understand that I have no inclination to live with you as I lived before, not because I am angry with you but because I have become a different person. I told you that the day after you returned, and in your soul, at this moment, you know you agree with me. But you want to rehabilitate yourself in the eyes of the world; it’s not enough for you to live in my house, you want to live with me under the same roof – isn’t that so?’

  ‘I want you to forgive me,’ said Varvara Pavlovna, without raising her eyes.

  ‘She wants you to forgive her,’ Marya Dmitrievna repeated.

  ‘And not for my sake, for Ada’s sake,’ whispered Varvara Pavlovna.

  ‘Not for her sake, for your Ada’s sake,’ repeated Marya Dmitrievna.

  ‘Excellent. That’s what you want, is it?’ Lavretsky uttered with an effort. ‘Then I agree to that, too.’

  Varvara Pavlovna cast a quick glance in his direction, but Marya Dmitrievna exclaimed: ‘Well, thank God!’ and again drew Varvara Pavlovna by the arm: ‘Now accept from me…’

  ‘Stop, I tell you,’ Lavretsky interrupted her. ‘I agree to live with you, Varvara Pavlovna,’ he continued, ‘ – that is, I will take you to Lavriki and live there with you as long as I have the strength to do so, but then I will leave – and will make occasional return visits. You see, I don’t want to deceive you, but don’t ask more than that. You would yourself burst out laughing if I were to fulfil the wish of our most respected relative and clasp you to my heart and start assuring you that… that the past was forgotten, that a felled tree can flourish again. But I see now that one must submit. You won’t understand that… it doesn’t matter. I repeat… I will live with you… or no, I cannot promise that… I will fall in with your wishes and again regard you as my wife…’

 
‘At least give her your hand on that,’ said Marya Dmitrievna, whose tears had long since dried up.

  ‘I have never deceived Varvara Pavlovna,’ Lavretsky retorted, ‘and she’ll trust my word. I will take her to Lavriki – and remember, Varvara Pavlovna: our pact will be considered broken the moment you leave there. And now allow me to go.’

  He bowed to both of them and hurriedly went out.

  ‘You’re not taking her with you…’ Marya Dmitrievna shouted after him.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Varvara Pavlovna whispered to her and at once embraced her, began thanking her, kissing her hands and calling her her saviour.

  Marya Dmitrievna condescended to accept her advances, but inwardly she was dissatisfied with Lavretsky, with Varvara Pavlovna and with the whole scene she had prepared. Too little emotional effect had come of it; Varvara Pavlovna, in her opinion, should have thrown herself at her husband’s feet.

  ‘Why didn’t you understand me?’ she argued. ‘I told you: get on your knees.’

  ‘It’s better like this, my dear aunt. Don’t worry – everything’s splendid,’ Varvara Pavlovna insisted.

  ‘Well, there it is – he’s as cold as ice,’ Marya Dmitrievna remarked. ‘There it is – you didn’t cry, while I streamed tears right in front of him. He wants to lock you up in Lavriki. Does that mean you won’t even be able to come and see me? Men have no feelings,’ she said in conclusion and significantly nodded her head.

  ‘Women know all the more how to value kindness and generosity,’ said Varvara Pavlovna and, dropping gently on to her knees before Marya Dmitrievna, enfolded her stout waist with her arms and pressed her face to her. This face slyly smiled, but in Marya Dmitrievna’s case tears again began to flow.

  Lavretsky went to his lodgings, locked himself in his valet’s small room, flung himself on the sofa and lay there until morning.

  XLIV

  THE next day was Sunday. The sound of bells for early service did not waken Lavretsky – he had not closed his eyes all night – but reminded him of that other Sunday when he had gone to church on Liza’s wishes. He rose hurriedly; some secret voice told him that he would see her there again today. He left the house without a sound, having left word for Varvara Pavlovna, who was still sleeping, that he would return for dinner, and with big strides set off in the direction to which the monotonously sad ringing called him. He arrived early: hardly anyone was yet in the church; a deacon was reading prayers in the chancel; his voice, occasionally interrupted by bouts of coughing, rose and fell in its measured deep intoning of the words. Lavretsky positioned himself not far from the entrance. Worshippers arrived one by one, stopped, crossed themselves and bowed on all sides; their footsteps made a ringing sound in the emptiness and quiet, clearly echoing in the vaulted roof. A decrepit old woman in a threadbare coat with a hood kneeled by Lavretsky and prayed diligently; her toothless, yellow, wrinkled face expressed intense exultation; her reddened eyes gazed immovably up at the icons on the iconostasis; her bony hand ceaselessly emerged from her coat and slowly and firmly made the sign of the cross in broad, large gestures. A peasant with a thick beard and despondent face, dishevelled and crumpled, entered the church, fell at once on both knees and instantly began hurriedly crossing himself, throwing back and shaking his head after each obeisance. Such bitter sorrow was written in his face and expressed in all his movements that Lavretsky decided to approach him and ask what was wrong. The peasant started back sternly and in fright, and looked at him…. ‘My son has died’ he said in haste and again started making his obeisances. ‘What can replace for them the comfort of the church?’ thought Lavretsky and made his own attempt to pray; but his heart had become hard and embittered and his thoughts were far away. He kept on waiting for Liza, but Liza did not come. The church began to fill with people; still she wasn’t there. The service began, and the deacon had already read the gospel, the bell had rung for the final devotion, when Lavretsky moved a little forward – and suddenly he saw Liza. She had come earlier than him, but he had not noticed her; pressed into the little space between the wall and the chancel, she did not look round and did not move. Lavretsky did not take his eyes off her until the very end of the service: he was saying good-bye to her. The people began to disperse, but she still remained there, as if she was waiting for Lavretsky to leave. Finally she crossed herself for the last time and went out without turning round; she had a maid with her. Lavretsky followed her out of the church and caught up with her in the street; she was walking very fast, with her head bent forward and a veil over her face.

  ‘Good morning, Lizaveta Mikhaylovna,’ he said loudly, with forced lack of restraint. ‘May I accompany you?’

  She said nothing; he walked along beside her.

  ‘Are you satisfied with me?’ he asked, lowering his voice. ‘Have you heard what happened yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she answered in a whisper, ‘that was good.’

  And she walked even more quickly.

  ‘Are you satisfied?’

  Liza simply nodded her head.

  ‘Fyodor Ivanych,’ she began in a calm but faint voice, ‘I wanted to ask you something: Don’t visit us any more, go away at once; we can see each other later – some time or other, a year from now. But do this now for me, do what I ask you, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I am ready to agree to anything you say, Lizaveta Mikhaylovna; but do we have to part like this? Can’t you at least say something to me?’

  ‘Fyodor Ivanych, you may be walking now beside me… but already you’re so far, far away from me. And it’s not only you, but…’

  ‘Do finish, I beg you!’ exclaimed Lavretsky. ‘What did you want to say?’

  ‘You will hear probably… but no matter, forget… no, please don’t forget me, remember me.’

  ‘I forget you!…’

  ‘Enough now, good-bye. Don’t follow me.’

  ‘Liza…’ Lavretsky began.

  ‘Good-bye, good-bye!’ she repeated, drew the veil further over her face and almost ran away from him.

  Lavretsky watched her go and, bowing his head, turned back along the street. He bumped into Lemm who also walked along with his hat pulled down to his nose and his eyes fixed on his feet.

  They exchanged looks in silence.

  ‘Well, what d’you have to say?’ Lavretsky asked eventually.

  ‘What do I have to say?’ Lemm replied gloomily. ‘I have nothing to say. Everything is dead, and we’re dead. (Alles ist todt, und wir sind todt.) You’re going to the right, aren’t you?’

  ‘To the right.’

  ‘And I’m going left. Good-bye.’

  The next morning Fyodor Ivanych set off for Lavriki with his wife. She travelled ahead of him in a carriage, with Ada and Justine; he travelled behind in the tarantass. Throughout the whole journey the pretty little girl never left the carriage window; she marvelled at everything: the peasants, the peasant women, the peasant huts, the wells, the horses’ yokes, the little bells and the multitudes of rooks; Justine shared her surprise; Varvara Pavlovna laughed at their remarks and exclamations. She was in high spirits; before leaving the town of O… she had discussed things with her husband.

  ‘I understand your position,’ she told him – and, judging by the expression of her clever eyes, he could conclude that she understood his position fully. ‘But you must at least do me the justice of agreeing that I am easy to live with; I won’t impose myself on you or embarrass you; I wanted to ensure Ada’s future; I need nothing more.’

  ‘Yes, you have achieved your object,’ said Fyodor Ivanych.

  ‘I dream of only one thing now: of burying myself in the depths of the country; I will always remember your generosity…’

  ‘Phew! Enough of that,’ he interrupted her.

  ‘And I will know how to respect your independence and your peace and quiet,’ she said in completion of her prepared phrase.

  Lavretsky bowed low to her. Varvara Pavlovna gathered that her husband was inwardly grateful to her.<
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  Towards evening of the second day they arrived at Lavriki; a week later Lavretsky departed for Moscow, leaving his wife five thousand roubles to live on, and the day after Lavretsky’s departure Panshin appeared, in answer to Varvara Pavlovna’s summons not to forget her in her isolation. She received him in the most hospitable way possible, and until late at night the high-ceilinged rooms of the house and even the garden were resonant with the sound of music, singing and gay French conversation. Panshin spent three days as a guest of Varvara Pavlovna; firmly pressing her beautiful hands as he said good-bye, he promised to be back very soon – and he kept his promise.

  XLV

  LIZA had a small room of her own on the second floor of her mother’s house, clean and bright, with a white bedstead, pots of flowers in the corners and under the windows, with a little writing-table, a small case of books and a crucifix on the wall. This little room was called the nursery; Liza had been born there. When she returned from the church, where Lavretsky had seen her, she tidied everything up more carefully than usual, dusted everywhere, looked through all her letters from girl-friends and all her notebooks and tied them up with ribbons, locked all her drawers, watered the flowers and touched each one lightly with her hand. All this she did unhurriedly, silently, with a look of intent and calm solicitude on her face. She stopped finally in the middle of the room, slowly looked round her and, going to the table, above which hung the crucifix, dropped on to her knees, placed her head on her clasped hands and remained motionless.

  Marfa Timofeyevna entered and found her in that position. Liza did not notice her come in. The old lady went out through the door on tiptoe and coughed loudly several times. Liza rose abruptly and wiped her eyes, which glistened with bright, unshed tears.

  ‘I see you’ve been tidying up your little cell again,’ said Marfa Timofeyevna, bending low to sniff a young rose in a pot. ‘What a splendid scent!’

  Liza looked thoughtfully at her aunt.