‘You know everything?’ Lavretsky said in a confused voice.
‘You heard me,’ Lemm replied. ‘Haven’t you realized I know everything?’
Lavretsky could not sleep until morning; all night he sat on his bed. And Liza did not sleep: she was praying.
XXXV
THE reader knows how Lavretsky grew up and developed; we will say a few words about Liza’s upbringing. She was ten years old when her father died; but he had had little time for her. Overwhelmed with business matters, constantly preoccupied with making money, embittered, sharp-tongued, impatient, he had spent money unsparingly on teachers, tutors, clothes and other children’s needs; but he could not stand, as he put it, ‘being nursemaid to the brats’ – and indeed there was no occasion for him to be nursemaid to them: he worked, busied himself with his affairs, slept little, played an occasional game of cards and again worked; he compared himself to a horse harnessed to a threshing machine. ‘My life’s slipped away all too quickly,’ he murmured on his death-bed, with a bitter smile on his dried-up lips. Marya Dmitrievna, to all intents and purposes, had no more time for Liza than her husband, although she had boasted to Lavretsky that she had brought her children up by herself; she used to dress Liza up like a doll, stroked her on the head in the presence of guests and called her to her face a clever girl and her darling – and that was all: any permanent care would utterly exhaust the indolent lady. During her father’s lifetime Liza was in the hands of a governess, a Mademoiselle Moreau from Paris; after his death she passed into Marfa Timofeyevna’s keeping. The reader already knows Marfa Timofeyevna; but Mademoiselle Moreau was a tiny wrinkled creature with bird-like ways and a bird-like brain. In her youth she had led a very disorderly life, but in old age she had retained only two passions – for sweet things and for cards. When she had eaten amply, was not playing cards or chattering, her face would instantly acquire an expression that was almost moribund: she would sit, gaze and breathe, but one could literally see that there was not a single thought in her head. She could not even be called kindly: birds, after all, are not kind-hearted. Whether as a consequence of a youth passed in frivolity or of the Parisian air which she had breathed since childhood, there had been fostered in her a kind of cheap and nasty, universal scepticism, which expressed itself usually in the words: ‘Tout ça c’est des bêtises.’ She spoke an incorrect but purely Parisian jargon, did not gossip and was not given to caprices – what more can one ask of a governess? She had little influence on Liza; all the stronger, then, was the influence of her nurse, Agafya Vlasyevna.
This woman’s story was remarkable. She came of a peasant family; at sixteen she was married to a muzhik; but she was in sharp contrast to her peasant sisters. Her father had been a village elder for twenty years, had accumulated a good deal of money and spoiled her. She was extraordinarily good-looking, the best-dressed woman in the whole region, clever, talkative and bold. Her master, Dmitry Pestov, Marya Dmitrievna’s father, a quiet and modest man, saw her once during the threshing, talked to her and fell passionately in love with her. She was soon widowed; Pestov, although a married man, took her into his house and dressed her like a house-serf. Agafya at once acclimatized herself to her new position, just as if she had never lived otherwise. She grew paler and fuller; her arms beneath her muslin sleeves grew ‘white as wheaten flour’, like those of a merchant’s wife; the samovar was never off the table; she would wear nothing but silk and velvet and slept on feather beds. This life of bliss lasted about five years, until Dmitry Pestov died; his widow, a kindly woman, in deference to the dead man’s memory, had no wish to deal dishonourably with her rival, more especially since Agafya had never been disrespectful to her; however, she married her off to a cowherd and banished her from sight. Three years or so passed. One hot summer’s day the mistress paid a visit to her cowsheds. Agafya offered her such excellent cold dairy cream, carried herself so modestly and was so neatly dressed, happy and contented with everything, that her mistress forgave her and allowed her to return to the house; and within six months had become so attached to her that she made her a housekeeper and entrusted the management of the household to her. Agafya again came into her own, grew plump and white-skinned; her mistress had implicit confidence in her. So passed another five years. Misfortune broke over Agafya’s head a second time. Her husband, whom she had raised into a manservant, took to drink, started absenting himself from the house and ended by stealing six of the mistress’s silver spoons and hiding them – for the time being – in his wife’s trunk. The theft was discovered. He was again turned into a cowherd, but Agafya suffered the worse indignity of disgrace; though she was not driven from the house, she was downgraded from housekeeper to seamstress and ordered to wear a kerchief instead of a cap. To everyone’s surprise, Agafya accepted the blow that had fallen on her with meek humility. She was already more than thirty, all her children had died and her husband did not live long. The time had come for her to take stock; and take stock she did. She became very taciturn and religious, never missed a single morning or evening service, and gave away all her pretty dresses. Fifteen years she spent quietly, humbly, sedately, quarrelling with no one, acquiescent in all things. If people insulted her, she would simply bow her head and be grateful for the lesson. Her mistress had long since forgiven her, removed the disgrace from her and made her a gift of her own cap; but she herself had no wish to doff her kerchief and habitually went about in a dark dress; and after the death of her mistress she became still quieter and more humble. A Russian is always apprehensive and easily befriended; but it is hard to earn his respect: it is not given readily and not to everyone. Agafya was very much respected by everyone in the house; no one remembered her past sins, as if they had literally been buried in the earth along with the old master.
Having become Marya Dmitrievna’s husband, Kalitin wanted to entrust the management of the household to Agafya; but she refused ‘for fear of temptation’; he tried to get his way by shouting at her: she bowed low and went out. The intelligent Kalitin understood people; he also understood Agafya and did not forget her. When he moved into town, with her agreement he gave her a place as nurse to Liza, who had just passed her fifth year.
Liza was at first frightened by the stern and serious face of her new nurse; but she soon grew used to her and developed a strong attachment for her. She was herself a serious child; her features took after the sharp and regular face of her father; only her eyes were different: they shone with a calm attentiveness and goodness rare in children. She did not enjoy playing with dolls, had a laugh that was not loud or long, and was always on her best behaviour. She did not often become thoughtful, but when she did it was almost always to good effect: after a short silence she would usually end up by turning to a grown-up with a question which showed that her mind had been at work on some new impression. She stopped lisping very early and could pronounce words quite clearly before she was four. She was frightened of her father; her feeling for her mother was less well defined – she was not frightened of her and yet was not overtly fond of her; for that matter, she showed no overt fondness for Agafya, although it was only Agafya she really loved. She and Agafya were inseparable. They presented an odd sight both together. There would be Agafya, all in black, with a dark kerchief on her head, with her lean, waxenly translucent, but still beautiful and expressive face, sitting upright and knitting a stocking; at her feet, in a little armchair, would be Liza, also working at something or, with seriously raised bright little eyes, listening to what Agafya was telling her; and Agafya would not be telling her fairytales: in an even, level voice she would tell of the Virgin Mary, the lives of hermits, saints and holy martyrs; she would tell Liza how saints had dwelt in waste places, how they had been saved, how they had endured hunger and need, had not feared the wrath of kings and had confessed their faith in Christ; how birds of the air had brought them food and wild beasts were obedient to them; how on the places where their blood had fallen flowers had sprung up. ‘Wallflowers?’ Liza, w
ho was very fond of flowers, asked once…. Agafya spoke to Liza in serious and humble tones, as if she herself felt that it was not for her to pronounce such exalted and sacred words. Liza listened to her – and the image of an ever-present, omniscient God stole with a kind of sweet force into her soul, filled her with a pure, worshipful awe, and Christ became something close, familiar, almost kindred to her. Agafya also taught her how to pray. Sometimes she would wake Liza at dawn, hastily dress her and carry her off in secret to early service; Liza would follow her on tiptoe, hardly breathing; the cold and half-light of morning, the freshness and emptiness of the church, the very mysteriousness of these unexpected absences from home, the cautious return to the house and to bed – all this mixture of the forbidden, strange and holy shook the very foundations of the young girl’s life and penetrated into the very depths of her being. Agafya never passed judgement on anyone and did not scold Liza for being naughty. When she was dissatisfied, she simply kept quiet; and Liza understood this silence; with the quick insight of a child she understood equally well when Agafya was dissatisfied with others – whether with Marya Dmitrievna or with Kalitin himself. Agafya looked after Liza for more than three years; Mademoiselle Moreau took her place; but the frivolous Frenchwoman with her dry ways and her exclamation: ‘Tout ça c’est des bêtises,’ could not drive from Liza’s heart her beloved nurse: the seeds she had sown had put down roots far too deep for that. Moreover Agafya, although she had ceased to look after Liza, remained in the house and had frequent occasion to see her pupil, who trusted her as before.
Agafya, however, did not get on with Marfa Timofeyevna when the latter moved into the Kalitin house. The stern solemnity of the former ‘peasant’ had no appeal for the self-willed and impatient old lady. Agafya asked to be allowed to go on a pilgrimage and did not return. Dark rumours circulated that she had joined a sect of Raskolniks. But the trace left by her in Liza’s soul was not erased. She went as before to Mass, as if going on an outing, and said her prayers with enjoyment, with a kind of restrained and shamefaced excess of feeling which was a source of no little secret wonder to Marya Dmitrievna, and Marfa Timofeyevna herself, although she did not inhibit Liza in any way, tried to make her moderate her fervour and would not allow her to make too many obeisances to the ground: that, she said, was not the way the gentry did things. Liza learned her lessons well, that is to say assiduously; God had not endowed her with particularly remarkable capabilities or great cleverness; nothing came easily to her. She played the piano well; but Lemm alone knew how much that had cost her. She read little; she had no ‘words of her own’, but she had her own ideas and she went her own way. It was not for nothing that she resembled her father: she also never asked others what to do. So she grew up, calmly and unhurriedly, and had reached nineteen years of age. She was very charming without knowing it. Her every movement bespoke an involuntary, slightly awkward gracefulness; her voice rang with the silvery ring of immaculate youth; the slightest sensation of happiness brought an attractive smile to her lips and endowed her brightening eyes with a profound lustre and a kind of secret kindliness. Permeated with a feeling of duty, with a fear of offending anyone, with a kindness and meekness of heart, she loved the whole world and no one in particular; God alone she loved exultantly, shyly, tenderly. Lavretsky was the first person to disturb her calm inner life.
Such was Liza.
XXXVI
THE next day, at about twelve o’clock, Lavretsky went to the Kalitins. On the way he met Panshin, who galloped past him on horseback with his hat pulled down over his eyebrows. At the Kalitins he was not received – for the first time since he had made their acquaintance. Marya Dmitrievna was ‘resting’, or so the footman announced; ‘her ladyship’ had a headache. Marfa Timofeyevna and Lizaveta Mikhaylovna were not at home. Lavretsky took a stroll round the garden in the faint hope of meeting Liza, but saw no one. He returned two hours later and received the same answer, added to which the footman looked at him somewhat askance. It seemed improper to Lavretsky to pay a third call the same day – and he decided to go to Vasilyevskoye, where there were matters enough to be seen to. On the way he made various plans, each one more splendid than the next; but in his aunt’s little village he was attacked by melancholy; he broached a conversation with Anton; the old man, as if deliberately, had only dismal thoughts on his mind. He told Lavretsky how Glafira Petrovna before her death had bitten her own hand – and, after a short silence, said with a sigh: ‘Ev’ry man, master, sir, is destined to eat ‘isself.’ It was already late when Lavretsky set out for the return journey. The previous day’s music captivated him, the image of Liza rose in his soul in all its meek lucidity; he was touched at the thought that she loved him – and he drove up to his little town house in a calm and happy mood.
The first thing that struck him on entering the hallway was the – to him – very repugnant smell of patchouli; and there stood there several tall trunks and boxes. The face of his valet, who came skipping out to meet him, looked odd. Without taking account of his impressions, he entered the doorway of the drawing-room…. There rose to meet him from the divan a lady in a black silk dress with flounces who, raising a cambric handkerchief to her pale face, took a few steps across the room, bent her exquisitely coiffured and perfumed head – and fell at his feet…. Only then did he recognize her: this lady was his wife.
His breathing failed him…. He leaned back against the wall.
‘Theodore, do not drive me away!’ she said in French, and her voice cut through his heart like a knife.
He gazed at her senselessly and yet at once noted, despite himself, that she had grown white and stout.
‘Theodore!’ she continued, occasionally casting up her eyes and carefully wringing her surprisingly beautiful hands with their pink polished nails. ‘Theodore, I’m to blame, deeply to blame – I will say more, I’ve committed a crime against you; but you must hear me out, remorse is torturing me, I’ve become a burden to myself, I couldn’t endure my position any longer; so many times I thought of turning to you, but I was frightened of your anger; I decided to break every connexion with the past… puis, j’ ai été si malade, I was so ill,’ she added, and drew a hand over her temples and cheek. took advantage of the rumour that had been spread about my death and abandoned everything; without stopping, day and night I hurried here; I’ve hesitated a long time before coming before you, my judge – paraître devant vous, mon juge; but I decided finally to come to you, remembering your former goodness; I learned your address in Moscow. Believe me,’ she continued, very quietly rising from the floor and sitting on the very edge of an armchair, ‘I often thought about death, and I would’ve found enough courage in myself to take my own life – ah, life for me now is an unbearable burden! – but the thought of my daughter, of my Adochka, made me stop; she is here, she is asleep in the next room, poor child! She is tired – you will see her: she at least is not to blame, but I’m so wretched, so wretched!’ exclaimed Mrs Lavretsky and burst into tears.
Lavretsky finally came to his senses; he moved away from the wall and turned towards the door.
‘You’re leaving?’ his wife said with desperation. ‘Oh, that’s cruel! Without a single word to me, not even a reproach…. This contempt is killing me, it’s terrible!’
Lavretsky stopped.
‘What do you want to hear from me?’ he uttered in a toneless voice.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ she chimed in animatedly. ‘I know I have no right to demand anything; I’m not out of my mind, believe me; I don’t hope, I don’t dare to hope for your forgiveness; I only want to be bold enough to beg you to tell me what I should do and where I should live. Like a slave I will obey your command, whatever it may be.’
‘It’s not my business to give you orders,’ Lavretsky retorted in the same voice. ‘You know that everything’s finished between us… and now more than ever. You can live wherever you like; and if your allowance seems to you too small…’
‘Ah, don’t say such terrible thi
ngs,’ Varvara Pavlovna interrupted him. ‘Have pity on me, if only for… if only for the sake of this angel…’ And, so saying, Varvara Pavlovna dashed headlong into the other room and instantly returned with a small, very elegantly dressed little girl in her arms. Large auburn curls fell about her pretty, rosy little face and on her large, black, sleepy eyes; she was both smiling and screwing up her eyes from the firelight and leaning with one fat little hand on her mother’s neck.
‘Ada, vois, c’est ton père,’ said Varvara Pavlovna, lifting the curls from her eyes and robustly kissing her, ‘prie-le avec moi.’
‘C’est ça papa,’ the little girl lisped.
‘Oui, mon enfant, n’ est-ce pas que tu l’ aimes?’
But this was too much for Lavretsky.
‘In what melodrama is there just such a scene?’ he muttered and went out.
Varvara Pavlovna stood for a while where she was, gave a slight shrug of the shoulders, carried the little girl into the other room, undressed her and put her to bed. Then she got out a book, sat down by the lamp, waited about an hour and eventually went to bed herself.
‘Eh bien, madame?’ asked her French maid, who had been brought by her from Paris, as she was taking off her corset.
‘Eh bien, Justine,’ she replied, ‘he has grown much older in appearance, but it seems to me he’s still the same kind-hearted man. Give me my gloves for the night and lay out my grey dress for tomorrow; and don’t forget the mutton chops for Ada…. True, they may not be easy to find here; but one must try.’
‘À la guerre comme à la guerre,’ Justine replied and blew out the candle.
XXXVII
FOR more than two hours Lavretsky wandered about the streets of the town. He recalled to mind the night spent on the outskirts of Paris. His heart was breaking and in his head, empty and literally stunned, swarmed over and over the same thoughts, dark, senseless, wicked. ‘She’s alive, she’s here,’ he whispered with ever growing amazement. He felt that he had lost Liza. Bitterness choked him; this blow had fallen on him all too suddenly. How could he so readily have believed the rubbishy gossip of a newspaper report, a mere scrap of paper? ‘Well, if I hadn’t believed it,’ he thought, ‘what would’ve been the difference? I wouldn’t have known that Liza loved me, nor would she have known it herself.’ He could not drive out of his mind the image, the voice, the eyes of his wife…. And he cursed himself, cursed everything on earth.