Liza was astonished.
‘Do you really think so?’ she said. ‘I’d thought that, like my maid Nastya, I hadn’t got any words of my own. She once told her boy-friend he’d be bored because he could talk about all sorts of things but she “hadn’t got any words of her own”.’
‘And thank God!’ thought Lavretsky.
XXVII
MEANWHILE, evening was approaching and Marya Dmitrievna expressed a desire to return home. The little girls were torn away from the pond only with difficulty and spruced up for the journey. Lavretsky announced that he would accompany his guests to the halfway point, and ordered his horse to be saddled. As he was assisting Marya Dmitrievna into the carriage, he suddenly missed Lemm; but the old man was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared as soon as the fishing was over. Anton, with remarkable force for his age, banged shut both the doors and shouted fiercely: ‘Be off, driver!’ The carriage started away. The back seat was occupied by Marya Dmitrievna and Liza, the front seat by the girls and the maid. The evening was warm and peaceful, and the carriage windows on both sides were lowered. Lavretsky trotted beside the carriage on Liza’s side, resting his hand on the door – he had thrown the reins over the neck of his smoothly trotting horse – and occasionally exchanging two or three words with the young girl. The rays of the sunset vanished and night approached, but the air became even warmer. Marya Dmitrievna quickly fell into a doze; the Utile girls and the maid also slept The carriage rolled along at a quick, even pace; Liza leaned forward; the newly risen moon shone in her face, a fragrant nocturnal breeze brushed her eyes and cheeks. She was happy. Her hand rested on the carriage door next to Lavretsky’s hand. And he was happy, being carried along through the still and balmy night without lowering his eyes from the kindly young face and hearing the young and melodious voice whispering good and simple things; he did not even notice that he had ridden halfway. Not wishing to awaken Marya Dmitrievna, he lightly pressed Liza’s hand and said: ‘We’re friends now, aren’t we?’ She nodded her head and he stopped his horse. The carriage rolled off on its way, ever so gently swaying and plunging; Lavretsky turned homewards at a walk. The charm of the summer night possessed him; everything around him seemed so unexpectedly strange and at the same time so long and so sweetly familiar to him; near and far – and one could see a long way, although the eye could not distinguish much of what it saw – everything was at peace; this very peace was redolent of youth bursting with life. Lavretsky’s horse stepped out, rocking him evenly from side to side; its large black shadow moved along beside it; there was something secretly pleasing in the tramp of its hooves, something joyous and wonderful in the ringing cries of the quail. The stars disappeared in a bright haze; the moon, not yet full, shone with a hard glow; its light flowed in a pale-blue stream across the sky and fell in patches of smoky gold on the light clouds which passed close to it; the freshness of the air brought a slight moisture to the eyes, gently caressed the limbs and flowed freely into the lungs. Lavretsky was enjoying himself and revelled in his enjoyment. ‘Well, we’ll keep on living,’ he thought, ‘we’re not yet completely eaten up by…’ He did not say who or what…. Then he began thinking about Liza, about the fact that she could hardly be in love with Panshin; that had he met her in other circumstances, God knows what would have come of it; that he agreed with Lemm, although she had no words of her own. And yet that wasn’t true: she did have words of her own…. He was reminded of her saying: ‘Don’t speak lightly about it.’ For a long while he rode with lowered head, then straightened his back, uttered slowly:
And I’ve burnt all to which I once was given,
And bow down to all I burnt of old…
but at once whipped up his horse and galloped home.
Slipping off his horse, he looked round him for the last time with an involuntary smile of thankfulness. The night lay in a silent caress upon the hills and valleys; from afar, out of its perfumed deeps, God knows from where – whether from the sky or from the earth – stretched a calm and gentle warmth. Lavretsky made a final bow to Liza and ran up the porch steps.
The next day passed fairly dully. From morning on there was rain; Lemm glared from beneath his brows and pursed his lips so tightly it was as if he had given himself a promise never to open them again. When he went to bed, Lavretsky took with him a whole heap of French journals which had been lying unopened on his desk for more than a fortnight. Disinterestedly he began ripping off the covers and glancing through the columns of newspapers in which, however, there was nothing new. He was about to cast them aside when he suddenly leapt up from the bed as though stung. In a report in one of the newspapers M. Jules, who is already familiar to us, informed his readers of ‘a sad piece of news’: that delightful, fascinating Moscow lady, he wrote, one of the queens of fashion and an adornment of the Paris salons, Madame de Lavretzki, had died most suddenly – and this news, regrettably all too true, had only just reached him, M. Jules. He was, he continued, a friend of the deceased, one might say…
Lavretsky dressed, went out into the garden and until morning walked up and down the same pathway.
XXVIII
THE next morning, over tea, Lemm asked Lavretsky to let him have horses in order to return to town. ‘It’s time for me to get back to work – to giving my lessons, that’s to say,’ the old man remarked. ‘Here I’m only wasting my time.’ Lavretsky did not respond at once: he seemed distracted. ‘All right,’ he said finally, ‘I’ll be coming with you.’ Without the help of a servant, groaning and losing histemper, Lemm packed his small trunk and tore up and burnt several sheets of music paper. The horses were got ready. Coming out of his study, Lavretsky placed the copy of the newspaper he had read yesterday in his pocket. Throughout the journey Lemm and Lavretsky spoke little: each was preoccupied with his own thoughts and was glad not to be disturbed. They parted rather drily, which, however, frequently happens among friends in Russia. Lavretsky took the old man to his little house; the old man alighted, got out his small trunk and, without offering a hand to his friend (he was holding his small trunk with both hands in front of him) and without even looking at him, said in Russian: ‘Good-bye, sir!’ ‘Good-bye,’ Lavretsky repeated and ordered his driver to take him to his rooms. He had already taken rooms in the town of O… for just such an occasion. After writing a few letters and having a hasty dinner, Lavretsky went to the Kalitins. In their drawing-room he found only Panshin, who announced that Marya Dmitrievna would be coming shortly and at once began talking to him with the most cordial affability. Until now Panshin had treated Lavretsky not so much haughtily as condescendingly; but Liza, in telling Panshin of her trip the previous day, spoke of Lavretsky as an excellent and intelligent person; this was sufficient: the ‘excellent’ person had to be won over. Panshin began with compliments, describing the enthusiasm with which, in his own words, Marya Dmitrievna’s entire family had spoken about Vasilyevskoye, and then, in his customary way, skilfully turning to himself, he began to talk about his own affairs and his views on life, high society and government service; he said a couple of words about the future destiny of Russia and how governors were to be kept in check; at which he gaily made fun of himself and added that, among other things, in St Petersburg he had been given the task ‘de populariser l’idée du cadastre’.1 He spoke for a rather long time, with careless self-assurance resolving all difficulties and juggling with the most important administrative and political questions. Expressions such as: ‘That’s what I’d do if I were the government’ and ‘You, as an intelligent man, will be bound to agree with me’ slipped off his tongue. Lavretsky listened coldly to Panshin’s exhortations: he did not like this handsome, clever man with his unforced elegance, his bright smile, his polite voice and probing eyes. Panshin soon guessed, with his habitual quick understanding of another’s feelings, that he was not giving his listener particular pleasure and on a favourable pretext absented himself, having decided for his own part that Lavretsky might be an excellent person, but he was also unsympathe
tic, aigri and, en somme, slightly ridiculous. Marya Dmitrievna appeared in the company of Gedeonovsky; then came Marfa Timofeyevna and Liza, and after them the remaining members of the household; then came the music-lover, Mrs Belenitsyn, a small, thin woman, with an almost childish little face, wan and pretty, in a rustling black dress, with a colourful fan and fat gold bracelets; her husband also came, a red-cheeked, puffy man with large feet and hands, with white eyelashes and a fixed smile on his thick lips; when they were guests his wife never spoke to him, but at home, in moments of tenderness, she called him her little porker. Panshin returned; the rooms became very noisy and full of people. Such a mass of people did not suit Lavretsky’s purpose; he was particularly irritated by Mrs Belenitsyn, who continually looked at him through her lorgnette. He would have left at once, had it not been for Liza: he wanted to have a word with her alone, but for a long time he could not find a suitable moment and had to content himself with the secret delight of following her with his eyes; her face had never seemed to him more noble or charming. She gained much through being close to Mrs Belenitsyn. That lady ceaselessly fidgeted on her chair, shrugged her narrow little shoulders, gave affected laughs and either screwed up her eyes or suddenly opened them wide. Liza sat quietly looking straight ahead of her and not laughing at all. The hostess sat down to play cards with Marfa Timofeyevna, Belenitsyn and Gedeonovsky, who played exceedingly slowly, made endless mistakes, blinked his eyes and wiped his face with a handkerchief. Panshin assumed a melancholy air, expressed himself briefly, pointedly and gravely – for all the world like a misunderstood artist-but notwithstanding the entreaties of Mrs Belenitsyn, who flirted with him outrageously, declined to sing his romance, since Lavretsky’s presence embarrassed him. Fyodor Ivanych also spoke little; the special look on his face had struck Liza as soon as he had entered the room; she sensed at once that he had something to tell her, but she was frightened of asking him, without knowing exactly why. Finally, as she was crossing into the main room to pour the tea, she turned her head in his direction despite herself. At once he followed her.
‘What is wrong with you?’ she asked, placing the teapot on the samovar.
‘Have you noticed something wrong?’ he said.
‘Today you are not the same as I have seen you up till now.’
Lavretsky leaned over the table.
‘I wanted’, he began, ‘to let you have a piece of news, but it’s not possible now. But read what’s marked with a pencil in this newspaper report,’ he added, handing her the copy of the paper he had brought with him. ‘I beg you to keep it secret. I’ll come round tomorrow.’
Liza was taken aback…. Panshin appeared in the doorway: she put the newspaper in her pocket.
‘Have you read Obermann2, Lizaveta Mikhaylovna?’ Panshin asked her thoughtfully.
Liza muttered an answer in passing and left the room to go upstairs. Lavretsky returned to the drawing-room and went up to the card table. Marfa Timofeyevna, red in the face, with her cap-ribbons undone, began to complain to him about her partner Gedeonovsky who, according to her, had no idea what card to lead with.
‘Evidently playing cards’, she said, ‘is not the same as telling stories.’
Gedeonovsky continued to blink his eyes and wipe his face. Liza came into the drawing-room and sat down in one corner; Lavretsky looked at her and she looked at him – and both experienced tremors of fright. He read perplexity and a kind of secret reproach on her face. No matter how much he wanted to, he could not speak to her; it was equally hard for him to remain in the same room with her as a guest among other guests: he decided to leave. Saying good-bye to her, he managed to repeat that he would call again tomorrow and added that he looked forward to her friendship.
‘Please come,’ she answered with the same perplexed look on her face.
After Lavretsky’s departure Panshin came alive; he began to give advice to Gedeonovsky, exchanged jocular pleasantries with Mrs Belenitsyn and finally sang his romance. But with Liza he spoke and exchanged looks as he had done previously: pointedly and rather gravely.
But again Lavretsky did not sleep the whole night. He was neither sad, nor excited, he was quite calm; but he could not sleep. He did not even think about the past; he simply surveyed his life; his heart beat heavily and evenly, and the hours flew by without a thought of sleep. At times only there would float into his mind the thought: ‘It’s untrue, it’s all nonsense,’ and he would stop and lower his head and again begin the probing survey of his life.
XXIX
MARYA DMITRIEVNA received Lavretsky none too kindly when he made his appearance the following day. ‘It looks as if he’s making a habit of coming,’ she thought. She had no very strong liking for him in any event, and Panshin, what is more, under whose spell she was, had sung his praises exceedingly craftily and slightingly the previous day. Since she did not consider him a guest and thought it unnecessary to entertain a relative who was almost one of the household, it was less than half an hour before he was strolling along a garden path with Liza. Lenochka and Shurochka were running about among the flowerbeds a few steps away.
Liza was calm and composed as usual, but more than usually pale. She took from her pocket and handed to Lavretsky the tightly folded sheet of newspaper.
‘It’s awful!’ she said.
Lavretsky made no reply.
‘And perhaps it’s also not true,’ Liza added.
‘That’s why I asked you not to speak to anyone about it.’
Liza walked on a little way.
‘Tell me,’ she began, ‘aren’t you saddened? Even a little?’
‘I don’t know what I feel,’ Lavretsky answered.
‘But surely you loved her earlier?’
‘I did.’
‘Very much?’
‘Very much.’
‘And you’re not saddened by her death?’
‘She died for me before now.’
‘What you say is sinful…. Don’t be angry with me. You call me your friend: a friend can say anything. I really do feel terrible about it…. Yesterday there was such an unpleasant look on your face…. Do you remember how you railed against her recently? – and perhaps she was no longer on the earth at that moment. It’s terrible. It’s just as if it had been sent to you as a punishment.’
Lavretsky grinned bitterly.
‘Do you think so?… At least I’m now free.’
Liza shuddered slightly.
‘That’s enough, you mustn’t talk like that. What good to you is your freedom? You oughtn’t to think about that now, but about forgiveness…’
‘I forgave her long ago,’ Lavretsky interrupted with a wave of the hand.
‘No, not that,’ Liza protested and reddened. ‘You’ve misunderstood me. You ought to be worried that you’re forgiven…’
‘Who’s going to forgive me?’
‘Who? God. Who can forgive you if not God?’
Lavretsky seized her by the hand.
‘Ah, Lizaveta Mikhaylovna, believe me,’ he exclaimed, ‘I’ve already been punished enough! I’ve already expiated everything, believe me.’
‘You can’t know that for sure,’ Liza said in a low voice. ‘You’re forgetting that quite recently, when you were talking to me, you didn’t want to forgive her.’
They both walked a short way in silence.
‘What about your daughter?’ Liza asked suddenly, and stopped.
Lavretsky was startled.
‘Oh, don’t worry! I’ve already sent letters to all the necessary places. The future of my daughter, as you call her… as you say… is ensured. Don’t worry.’
Liza smiled sadly.
‘But you’re right,’ Lavretsky continued, ‘what am I to do with my freedom? What good’s it to me?’
‘When did you get this newspaper?’ asked Liza without answering his question.
‘The day after your visit.’
‘And didn’t you… didn’t you even cry?’
‘No. I was staggered; but wh
ere was I to get tears from? There was no point in crying over the past when it had all been burnt out of me! Her misconduct did not destroy my happiness, but simply proved to me that it had never existed. What was there to cry about? However, who knows? I might have been more saddened if I’d received this news a fortnight earlier…’
‘A fortnight?’ Liza asked. ‘What’s happened during the last fortnight?’
Lavretsky did not answer, and Liza suddenly reddened more deeply than before.
‘Yes, yes, you’ve guessed,’ Lavretsky chimed in suddenly. ‘In the course of this fortnight I have learned the significance of a pure woman’s soul, and my past has retreated from me still further.’
Liza was embarrassed and moved quietly towards Lenochka and Shurochka among the flowerbeds.
‘I’m happy I showed you that newspaper,’ said Lavretsky, following behind her. ‘I’ve become accustomed not to hide anything from you and I hope you’ll repay me with the same trustfulness.’
‘You think I should?’ said Liza and stopped. ‘In that case I ought to…. No! That’s impossible.’
‘What is it? Speak, speak.’
‘It really seems to me I shouldn’t…. But then,’ added Liza and turned towards Lavretsky with a smile, ‘what’s the point of being frank by halves? Do you know something? Today I received a letter.’
‘From Panshin?’
‘Yes…. How did you know?’
‘He asks for your hand?’
‘Yes,’ uttered Liza and looked at Lavretsky directly and seriously in the eyes.
Lavretsky, in his turn, looked seriously at Liza.
‘Well, what answer did you give him?’ he asked her finally.
‘I don’t know what answer to give,’ Liza replied and lowered her clasped hands.
‘Why not? Surely you love him?’
‘Yes, I like him; he seems to be a nice person.’
‘You told me the same thing in the same terms three days ago. I want to know whether you love him with that strong, passionate feeling which we are accustomed to call love?’