XIII
VARVAHA PAVLOVNA’S father, Pavel Petrovich Korobyn, a retired major-general, had spent his entire lifetime in St Petersburg on government service, had passed in his youth for a skilful dancer and parade-ground soldier, had served, through lack of means, as adjutant to two or three indifferent generals, had married the daughter of one of them, taking along with her a dowry of about twenty-five thousand, and had attained great finesse in the art of parade-ground drills and inspections; he had plodded on and on in his career and finally, after about twenty odd years, he attained the rank of general and was given a regiment. At this point he should have taken things easy and unhurriedly feathered his nest; he had reckoned on doing this, but he conducted his affairs rather incautiously; he thought up a new means of putting official funds to good use – the means proved excellent, save that he was mean with the money at the wrong moment and someone informed against him; the whole thing emerged as a more than unpleasant, in fact a nasty story. The general somehow or other twisted his way out of it, but his career had blown up in his face: he was advised to retire. For a couple of years he hung about in St Petersburg hoping that a cosy civilian job would pop up for him, but nothing popped up for him, and his daughter left school, his expenses increased with every day that passed…. Reluctantly he decided to move to Moscow where things were cheaper, rented in Staro-Konyushenny Street a tiny, low-fronted house with a huge coat of arms fixed to the roof and set himself up as a retired Moscow general with an annual expenditure of 2,750 roubles. Moscow is a hospitable city, glad to welcome all Toms, Dicks and Harries, and generals into the bargain; the stolid, but not unsoldierly figure of Pavel Petrovich soon began to appear in the best Moscow drawing-rooms. The bare nape of his neck, with its wisps of dyed hair and greasy ribbon of the Order of St Anne worn over a cravat the colour of a raven’s wing, became well known to all the blasé and pale-faced youths who used to wander morosely among the card tables during the dances. Pavel Petrovich knew how to set himself up in society; he spoke little, but nasally, as was the old-style custom – not, of course, with people of higher rank; he played a cautious game of cards, ate moderately at home, but when a guest he ate enough for six. Of his wife there was almost nothing to be said; she was called Calliope Karlovna; a perpetual tear-drop hung in her left eye, on account of which Calliope Karlovna (besides, she was of German extraction) considered herself to be a highly sensitive woman; she was in a perpetual state of nerves, looked as if she never ate enough and wore narrow velvet dresses, toques and discoloured hollow bracelets. The only daughter of Pavel Petrovich and Calliope Karlovna, Varvara Pavlovna, had only just reached seventeen when she left school, where she was considered, if not the most beautiful, then certainly the cleverest and the best musician, and where she had received the prize of the Empress’s monogram as an outstanding pupil; she was not yet nineteen when Lavretsky saw her for the first time.
XIV
THE Spartan’s legs were collapsing under him when Mikhalevich led him into the rather poorly furnished drawing-room of the Korobyns and introduced him. But the feeling of shyness which had possessed him earlier soon vanished: in the general the inborn kind-heartedness characteristic of all Russians was overlaid by that particular species of affability which is common to all people with a slightly tarnished reputation; his wife very soon retired into the background; so far as Varvara Pavlovna was concerned, she was so calm and endearingly self-assured that anyone would at once feel at home in her presence; moreover, her whole enchanting figure, her smiling eyes, her innocently sloping shoulders and pale-pink arms, her light-footed and, at the same time, listless walk, the very sound of her voice, so languid and sweet-toned – all rumoured of an enticing loveliness, as indefinable as a delicate perfume, of a soft, and as yet diffident, voluptuousness, of something that it is not easy to convey in words but which touched the heart and roused the feelings – and not, of course, feelings of shyness. Lavretsky turned the conversation to the theatre and the previous day’s performance; she at once began talking about Mochalov and did not confine herself to exclamations and sighs, but made several sound and femininely perceptive remarks about his acting. Mikhalevich raised the subject of music; without fuss, she sat down at the piano and gave careful renditions of several Chopin mazurkas which were just then coming into fashion. The time for dinner arrived; Lavretsky wished to leave, but they restrained him; at table the general regaled him with a good Lafitte, for which the general’s footman had been sent galloping off to Depré’s in a cab. Late in the evening Lavretsky returned home and sat for a long while without undressing, his hand over his eyes, in an ecstasy of wonder. It seemed to him that he had only now understood why life was worth living; all his presuppositions and intentions, all that stuff and nonsense, vanished in a flash; his entire soul blended into one feeling, into one desire – a desire for happiness, for possession, for love, a woman’s sweet love. From that day on he began to make frequent visits to the Korobyns’. Six months later he declared himself to Varvara Pavlovna and offered her his hand. His offer was accepted; the general had long ago, almost on the eve of Lavretsky’s first visit, inquired of Mikhalevich the number of Lavretsky’s serfs; and Varvara Pavlovna, moreover, who throughout the young man’s courtship and even at the very moment he had declared himself to her maintained her customary serenity and lucidity of soul – even Varvara Pavlovna knew full well that her fiancé was rich; while Calliope Karlovna thought: Meine Tochter macht eine schöne Partie, and bought herself a new toque.
XV
SO, his offer was accepted, but on certain conditions. Firstly’ Lavretsky had to leave the university at once: whoever thought of marrying a student and – what a strange idea! – a landowner, who was rich and yet at twenty-six years of age was taking lessons like a schoolboy? Secondly, Varvara Pavlovna took upon herself the task of ordering and buying her dowry and even of choosing the bridegroom’s gifts. She had much practical sense, much taste, a great fondness for comfort and much ability in obtaining such comfort for herself. This ability especially amazed Lavretsky when, immediately after the wedding, the two of them set off for Lavriki in the comfortable carriage which she had bought. How well everything about him had been thought out, anticipated and cared for by Varvara Pavlovna! What charming travelling cases, what exquisite toilet boxes and coffee pots appeared in various snug corners, and how nicely Varvara Pavlovna herself made the coffee each morning! Besides, Lavretsky was in no mood to observe things carefully: he was in a state of bliss, drunk with happiness, and he surrendered himself to this emotion like a child…. Indeed he was as innocent as a child, was this young Alcides. The whole being of his young wife had not rumoured of delight for nothing; it was not for nothing that she had given him sensual promise of the secret luxury of hitherto unknown pleasures; she kept back for him more than she had promised. Arriving at Lavriki in the utmost heat of summer, she found the house dirty and dark, the servants ridiculous and antiquated, but she did not consider it necessary even so much as to hint of this to her husband. If it had been part of her plans to stay in Lavriki, she would have altered everything there, beginning, of course, with the house; but the idea of staying in this steppe backwater had never for a moment entered her head; she lived in the house as in a tent, meekly enduring all the inconveniences and happily making fun of them. Marfa Timofeyevna came to pay a call on her former charge; Varvara Pavlovna took a strong liking to her, but Marfa Timofeyevna did not reciprocate. The new mistress also did not get on well with Glafira Petrovna; she would have left her in peace if old man Korobyn had not wanted to get his hands on his son-in-law’s affairs: the management of the estate of such a close relative, he made a point of saying, was nothing to be ashamed of, even for a general. It must be supposed that Pavel Petrovich would not have considered it beneath his dignity to manage the estate of someone entirely unknown to him. Varvara Pavlovna conducted her attack very artfully; without giving anything away, to all appearances wholly preoccupied with the bliss of her honeymoon, the qui
et country life, music and reading, she gradually brought Glafira to such a pitch that, one morning, she rushed into Lavretsky’s study like a mad thing and, flinging a bunch of keys on the table, announced that she hadn’t the strength left to manage things any longer and didn’t want to stay in the area. Suitably primed for such an eventuality, Lavretsky at once agreed to her going. Glafira Petrovna had not expected this. ‘Good,’ she said, and her eyes darkened, ‘I see that I’m superfluous here! I know who’s driving me out of here, out of my very own native home. Just you remember what I’ve got to say, nephew: you’ll never make a home for yourself anywhere, you’ll be a wanderer all your born days. That’s my last word to you.’ That very same day she retired to her little village, and in a week’s time General Korobyn arrived and, with a pleasant melancholy in both his eyes and movements, took the management of the whole estate into his hands.
In September Varvara Pavlovna carried her husband off to St Petersburg. She spent two winters in St Petersburg (in the summer they removed to Tsarskoye Selo) in a beautiful, bright, elegantly furnished apartment; they made many acquaintances in the middle, and even higher, circles of society, went out many times and received guests by giving the most delightful musical evenings and dances. Varvara Pavlovna attracted guests like moths to a flame. Fyodor Ivanych was not quite so fond of such a disorderly life. His wife advised him to enter government service; but, in deference to his father’s memory as well as to his own ideas, he had no desire to enter the service, yet in deference to Varvara Pavlovna he remained in St Petersburg. Besides, he soon found that no one prevented him from being alone, that it was not for nothing he had the quietest and most comfortable study in St Petersburg, that a solicitous wife was even ready to help him to be by himself – and from that moment on everything went beautifully. He once again devoted himself to his own – in his opinion as yet unfinished – education, again started reading, and even began studying the English language. It was a strange sight to see his powerful, broad-shouldered figure endlessly bent over his desk and his full, hairy, ruddy face half-hidden by the pages of a dictionary or notebook He would spend each morning over his work, dine superbly (Varvara Pavlovna was a housekeeper without parallel), and in the evenings he would enter the charmed, fragrant, brilliant world wholly populated by young and joyous faces – and the pivot of this world was that very same zealous hostess, his wife. She delighted him with the birth of a son, but the poor boy did not live long; he died in the spring, and in the summer, on doctor’s advice, Lavretsky took his wife abroad to a watering-place. She needed to be distracted after such a misfortune, and the state of her health demanded a warm climate. The summer and autumn they spent in Germany and Switzerland, and for the winter, as was to be expected, they went to Paris. In Paris, Varvara Pavlovna bloomed like a rose and succeeded, just as swiftly and skilfully as she had done in St Petersburg, in making a little nest for herself. She found an exceptionally pretty apartment in one of the quiet but fashionable streets of Paris, ran up a nightshirt for her husband the like of which he had never seen before; she engaged a chic maid, a superb cook and a nimble footman, and obtained an exquisite little carriage and a delightful piano. A week had not gone by before she was making her way across the street wearing a shawl, opening an umbrella or pulling on gloves no less expertly than the most pure-blooded native of Paris. And she had quickly acquired a circle of acquaintances. At first only Russians came to visit, but later came Frenchmen, extremely charming and courteous bachelors, with beautiful manners and euphonious names; all of them talked very fast and a great deal, bowed with easy familiarity and very pleasantly puckered their eyes; white teeth flashed behind their rosy lips – and how they could smile! Each of them brought his friends, and la belle madame de Lavretzki soon became famous from the Chaussée d’Antin to the Rue de Lille. At that time (all this occurred in 1836) the tribe of gossip-writers and reporters who now swarm everywhere like ants dug out of their heap had not yet begun to flourish; but even then there appeared in Varvara Pavlovna’s salon a certain M. Jules, a man of unprepossessing appearance with a scandalous reputation, brazen and despicable, like all duellists and dead-beats. This M. Jules was very repugnant to Varvara Pavlovna, but she received him because he contributed material to several newspapers and invariably mentioned her, calling her either Mme de L… tzki or Mme de ***, cette grande dame russe si distinguée, qui demeure rue de P… and telling the whole world, or rather a few hundred subscribers who were not in the least interested in Mme de L… tzki, how agreeable and charming this lady was, a real Frenchwoman in her intelligence (une vraie française par l’esprit) – Frenchmen can give no higher praise – what an exceptional musician she was and how astonishingly well she waltzed (Varvara Pavlovna really could waltz so as to draw all hearts after the hems of her flying, airy skirts)… in a word, spread news of her throughout the world – and that, say what you will, is surely not unpleasant. At that time Mademoiselle Mars1 had retired from the stage, Mademoiselle Rachel had not yet appeared; nevertheless, Varvara Pavlovna assiduously visited the theatre. She went into raptures over Italian music and laughed at the slapstick of Odry, yawned politely at the Comédie Française and wept at the acting of Madame Dorval in some ultra-romantic melodrama; but, most of all, Liszt himself played for her twice, and he was so nice, so simple–delightful! It was in such pleasant sensations that the winter passed, towards the end of which Varvara Pavlovna was even presented at court. Fyodor Ivanych, for his part, was not bored, although life at times weighed heavy on his shoulders – weighed heavy because it was empty. He read the newspapers, attended lectures at the Sorbonne and the Collège de France, followed the debates in the Assembly and embarked upon a translation of a well-known academic work about irrigation. ‘I am not wasting time,’ he thought. ‘All this is useful. But before next winter it is imperative I return to Russia and get down to work.’ It is difficult to say whether he had a clear idea what this work actually consisted of, and God knows whether he would have managed to return to Russia by the winter; in the meantime he was off to Baden-Baden with his wife…. Then an unexpected occurrence destroyed all his plans.
XVI
ONE day, having entered Varvara Pavlovna’s room in her absence, Lavretsky saw on the floor a small, carefully folded piece of paper. He automatically picked it up, automatically opened it and read the following, written in French:
Darling angel Betsy! (I cannot bring myself to call you Barbe or Varvara). I vainly waited for you on the corner of the boulevard; come tomorrow to our little apartment at half-past one. Your kind fat husband [ton gros bonhomme de mari] is usually burrowing around in his books at that time; we’ll have another go at that song by your poet Pushkin1 [de votre poète Pouskine] which you taught me: ‘Old husband, threatening husband!’ – A thousand kisses for your hands and feet. In anticipation.
Ernest
Lavretsky did not immediately understand what he had read; he read it a second time – and his head began to spin, the floor began moving under his feet like the deck of a ship in a swell. He started crying out and sighing and weeping all at the same moment.
He went crazy. He had trusted his wife so blindly; the possibility of deceit and betrayal had never occurred to him. This Ernest, this lover of his wife, was a fair-haired, good-looking boy of about twenty-three, with a turned-up nose and a delicate little moustache, almost the least noteworthy of all her acquaintances. Several minutes passed, then half an hour; Lavretsky remained standing there, squeezing the fateful note in his hand and staring senselessly at the floor; through some kind of dark whirlwind a host of pale faces flashed before him; his heart died agonizingly within him; he seemed to be falling and falling and falling, and there was no end to it. The familiar light rustle of a silk dress snapped him out of his trance; Varvara Pavlovna, in hat and shawl, was returning hurriedly from a walk. Lavretsky began trembling all over and flung himself out of the room; he felt that at that instant he was in a condition to tear her apart, beat her half to death, in peasant f
ashion strangle her with his own hands. The astounded Varvara Pavlovna wanted to stop him; he could only whisper: ‘Betsy’ – and dashed out of the house.
Lavretsky took a cab and ordered to be taken out of town. The remainder of the day and the whole night until morning he wandered about, endlessly stopping and flinging wide his arms: he was either out of his mind, or things came to seem to him somehow laughable, somehow even gay. By the morning he was thoroughly chilled and called at a miserable inn on the city’s outskirts, asked for a room and sat down on a chair by the window. A compulsive yawning took possession of him. He could scarcely keep on his feet, his body was exhausted, yet he could not even feel the tiredness, though the tiredness took its toll: he went on sitting there, staring and understanding nothing; he couldn’t understand what had happened to him, why he was there alone, with his limbs all numb, a bitter taste in his mouth, a dead weight on his heart, in an empty unfamiliar room; he couldn’t understand what had made her, Varya, give herself to this Frenchman and how, knowing herself to be unfaithful, she could maintain her former composure, her former tenderness and trustfulness towards him. ‘I don’t understand a thing,’ his parched lips whispered. ‘Who’ll guarantee to me now that in St Petersburg…’ And he could not bring himself to finish the question and yawned again, his whole body shuddering and shaking. Bright and dark memories tore with equal anguish at his heart; suddenly he recalled that a few days ago she had sat down along with him and Ernest at the piano and had sung: ‘Old husband, threatening husband!’ He recalled the expression on her face, the strange brilliance in her eyes and the colour in her cheeks – and he rose from the chair, wanting to go and say to them: ‘You’re not going to get away with making fun of me! My great-grandad used to hang his peasants up by the ribs, and my grandad was himself a peasant’ – and then kill them both. Then it suddenly seemed to him that everything happening to him was a dream, and not even a dream, but just some sort of nonsense that he could get rid of by shaking himself or turning his head…. He turned his head and, as a hawk drives its talons into its captive prey, so the pangs of regret cut deeper and deeper into his heart. To crown it all, Lavretsky was hoping in a few months to be a father…. The past, the future, the whole of his life was poisoned. He returned finally to Paris, stopped in an hotel and sent Varvara Pavlovna M. Ernest’s note together with the following letter: