"Yes, it is thy rule, thy rule," Mikhalevitch interrupted him in his turn....

"Thou art an egoist, that's what thou art!"--he thundered, an hour later:--"thou hast desired thine own personal enjoyment, thou hast desired happiness in life, thou hast desired to live for thyself alone...."

"What dost thou mean by personal enjoyment?"

"And everything has deceived thee; everything has crumbled away beneath thy feet."

"What is personal enjoyment,--I ask thee?"

"And it was bound to crumble. For thou hast sought support where it was not to be found, for thou hast built thy house on a quicksand...."

"Speak more plainly, without metaphors, because I do not understand thee."

"Because,--laugh if it pleases thee,--because there is no faith in thee, no warmth of heart; mind, merely a farthing mind; thou art simply a pitiful, lagging Voltairian--that's what thou art!"

"Who--I am a Voltairian?"

"Yes, just the same sort as thy father was, and dost not suspect it thyself."

"After that,"--cried Lavretzky,--"I have a right to say that thou art a fanatic!"

"Alas!"--returned Mikhalevitch, with contrition:--"unhappily, as yet I have in no way earned so lofty an appellation...."

"Now I have discovered what to call thee,"--shouted this same Mikhalevitch, at three o'clock in the morning;--"thou art not a sceptic, not a disillusioned man, not a Voltairian,--thou art a trifler, and thou art an evil-minded trifler, a conscious trifler, not an ingenuous trifler. Ingenuous triflers lie around on the oven and do nothing, because they do not know how to do anything; and they think of nothing.

But thou art a thinking man,--and thou liest around; thou mightest do something--and thou dost nothing; thou liest with thy well-fed belly upward and sayest: 'It is proper to lie thus, because everything that men do is nonsense, and twaddle which leads to nothing.'"

"But what makes thee think that I trifle,"--insisted Lavretzky:--"why dost thou a.s.sume such thoughts on my part?"

"And more than that, all of you, all the people of your sort,"--pursued the obstreperous Mikhalevitch:--"are erudite triflers. You know on what foot the German limps, you know what is bad about the English and the French,--and your knowledge comes to your a.s.sistance, justifies your shameful laziness, your disgusting inactivity. Some men will even pride themselves, and say, 'What a clever fellow I am!--I lie around, but the others, the fools, bustle about.' Yes!--And there are such gentlemen among us,--I am not saying this with reference to thee, however,--who pa.s.s their whole lives in a sort of stupor of tedium, grow accustomed to it, sit in it like ... like a mushroom in sour cream," Mikhalevitch caught himself up, and burst out laughing at his own comparison.--"Oh, that stupor of tedium is the ruin of the Russians! The repulsive trifler, all his life long, is getting ready to work...."

"Come, what art thou calling names for?"--roared Lavretzky, in his turn.--"Work ... act ... Tell me, rather, what to do, but don't call names, you Poltava Demosthenes!"

"Just see what a freak he has taken! I'll not tell thee that, brother; every one must know that himself," retorted Demosthenes, ironically.--"A landed proprietor, a n.o.bleman--and he doesn't know what to do! Thou hast no faith, or thou wouldst know; thou hast no faith--and there is no revelation."

"Give me a rest, at any rate, you devil: give me a chance to look around me,"--entreated Lavretzky.

"Not a minute, not a second of respite!"--retorted Mikhalevitch, with an imperious gesture of the hand.--"Not one second!--Death does not wait, and life ought not to wait."...

"And when, where did men get the idea of becoming triflers?"--he shouted, at four o'clock in the morning, but his voice had now begun to be rather hoa.r.s.e: "among us! now! in Russia! when on every separate individual a duty, a great obligation is inc.u.mbent toward G.o.d, toward the nation, toward himself! We are sleeping, but time is pa.s.sing on; we are sleeping...."

"Permit me to observe to thee,"--said Lavretzky,--"that we are not sleeping at all, now, but are, rather, preventing others from sleeping.

We are cracking our throats like c.o.c.ks. Hark, isn't that the third c.o.c.k-crow?"

This sally disconcerted and calmed down Mikhalevitch. "Farewell until to-morrow,"--he said, with a smile,--and thrust his pipe into his tobacco-pouch. "Farewell until to-morrow," repeated Lavretzky. But the friends conversed for an hour longer. However, their voices were no longer raised, and their speeches were quiet, sad, and kind.

Mikhalevitch departed on the following day, in spite of all Lavretzky's efforts to detain him. Feodor Ivanitch did not succeed in persuading him to remain; but he talked with him to his heart's content. It came out, that Mikhalevitch had not a penny in the world. Already, on the preceding evening, Lavretzky, with compa.s.sion, had observed in him all the signs and habits of confirmed poverty; his boots were broken, a b.u.t.ton was missing from the back of his coat, his hands were guiltless of gloves, down was visible in his hair; on his arrival, it had not occurred to him to ask for washing materials, and at supper he ate like a shark, tearing the meat apart with his hands, and cracking the bones noisily with his strong, black teeth. It appeared, also, that the service had been of no benefit to him, that he had staked all his hopes on the revenue-farmer, who had engaged him simply with the object of having in his counting-house "an educated man." In spite of all this, Mikhalevitch was not dejected, and lived on as a cynic, an idealist, a poet, sincerely rejoicing and grieving over the lot of mankind, over his own calling,--and troubled himself very little as to how he was to keep himself from dying with hunger. Mikhalevitch had not married, but had been in love times without number, and wrote verses about all his lady-loves; with especial fervour did he sing the praises of one mysterious "panna" with black and curling locks.... Rumours were in circulation, it is true, to the effect that the "panna" in question was a plain Jewess, well known to many cavalry officers ... but, when you come to think of it,--does that make any difference?

Mikhalevitch did not get on well with Lemm: his vociferous speeches, his harsh manners, frightened the German, who was not used to such things....

An unfortunate wretch always scents another unfortunate wretch from afar, but rarely makes up to him in old age,--and this is not in the least to be wondered at: he has nothing to share with him,--not even hopes.

Before his departure, Mikhalevitch had another long talk with Lavretzky, prophesied perdition to him, if he did not come to a sense of his errors, entreated him to occupy himself seriously with the existence of his peasants, set himself up as an example, saying, that he had been purified in the furnace of affliction,--and immediately thereafter, several times mentioned himself as a happy man, compared himself to the birds of heaven, the lilies of the field....

"A black lily, at any rate,"--remarked Lavretzky.

"Eh, brother, don't put on any of your aristocratic airs,"--retorted Mikhalevitch, good-naturedly:--"but thank G.o.d, rather, that in thy veins flows honest, plebeian blood. But I perceive, that thou art now in need of some pure, unearthly being, who shall wrest thee from this apathy of thine."

"Thanks, brother,"--said Lavretzky:--"I have had enough of those unearthly beings."

"Shut up, _cuinuik!_"--exclaimed Mikhalevitch.

"Cynic,"--Lavretzky corrected him.

"Just so, _cuinuik_,"--repeated Mikhalevitch, in no wise disconcerted.

Even as he took his seat in the tarantas, to which his flat, yellow, strangely light trunk was carried forth, he continued to talk; wrapped up in some sort of a Spanish cloak with a rusty collar, and lion's paws in place of clasps, he still went on setting forth his views as to the fate of Russia, and waving his swarthy hand through the air, as though he were sowing the seeds of its future welfare. At last the horses started....

"Bear in mind my last three words,"--he shouted, thrusting his whole body out of the tarantas, and balancing himself:--"religion, progress, humanity!... Farewell!" His head, with its cap pulled down to the very eyes, vanished. Lavretzky remained standing alone on the porch and staring down the road until the tarantas disappeared from his sight.

"But I think he probably is right,"--he said to himself, as he reentered the house:--"probably I am a trifler." Many of Mikhalevitch's words had sunk indelibly into his soul, although he had disputed and had not agreed with him. If only a man be kindly, no one can repulse him.

[10] Polish for "gentlewoman."--Translator.

XXVI

Two days later, Marya Dmitrievna arrived with all her young people at Vasilievskoe, in accordance with her promise. The little girls immediately ran out into the garden, while Marya Dmitrievna languidly traversed the rooms, and languidly praised everything. Her visit to Lavretzky she regarded as a token of great condescension, almost in the light of a good deed. She smiled affably when Anton and Apraxyeya, after the ancient custom of house-serfs, came to kiss her hand,--and in an enervated voice, through her nose, she asked them to give her some tea. To the great vexation of Anton, who had donned white knitted gloves, the newly-arrived lady was served with tea not by him, but by Lavretzky's hired valet, who, according to the a.s.sertion of the old man, knew nothing whatever about proper forms. On the other hand, Anton rea.s.serted his rights at dinner: firm as a post he stood behind Marya Dmitrievna's chair--and yielded his place to no one. The long-unprecedented arrival of visitors at Vasilievskoe both agitated and rejoiced the old man: it pleased him to see, that his master knew nice people. However, he was not the only one who was excited on that day: Lemm, also, was excited. He put on a short, snuff-coloured frock-coat, with a sharp-pointed collar, bound his neckerchief tightly, and incessantly coughed and stepped aside, with an agreeable and courteous mien. Lavretzky noted, with satisfaction, that the close relations between himself and Liza still continued: no sooner did she enter, than she offered him her hand, in friendly wise. After dinner, Lemm drew forth, from the back pocket of his coat, into which he had been constantly thrusting his hand, a small roll of music, and pursing up his lips, he silently laid it on the piano. It was a romance, which he had composed on the preceding day to old-fashioned German words, in which the stars were alluded to. Liza immediately seated herself at the piano and began to decipher the romance.... Alas, the music turned out to be complicated, and disagreeably strained; it was obvious that the composer had attempted to express some pa.s.sionate, profound sentiment, but nothing had come of it: so the attempt remained merely an attempt. Lavretzky and Liza both felt this,--and Lemm understood it: he said not a word, put his romance back in his pocket, and in reply to Liza's proposal to play it over again, he merely said significantly, with a shake of his head: "Enough--for the present!"--bent his shoulders, shrank together, and left the room.

Toward evening, they all went fishing together. The pond beyond the garden contained a quant.i.ty of carp and loach. They placed Marya Dmitrievna in an arm-chair near the bank, in the shade, spread a rug under her feet, and gave her the best hook; Anton, in the quality of an old and expert fisherman, offered his services. He a.s.siduously spitted worms on the hook, slapped them down with his hand, spat on them, and even himself flung the line and hook, bending forward with his whole body. That same day, Marya Dmitrievna expressed herself to Feodor Ivanitch, with regard to him, in the following phrase, in the French language of girls' inst.i.tutes: "_Il n'y a plus maintenant de ces gens comme ca comme autrefois._" Lemm, with the two little girls, went further away, to the dam; Lavretzky placed himself beside Liza. The fish bit incessantly, the carp which were caught were constantly flashing their sides, now gold, now silver, in the air; the joyous exclamations of the little girls were unceasing; Marya Dmitrievna herself gave vent to a couple of shrill, feminine shrieks. Lavretzky and Liza caught fewer than the others; this, probably, resulted from the fact that they paid less attention than the rest to their fishing, and allowed their floats to drift close insh.o.r.e. The tall, reddish reeds rustled softly around them, in front of them the motionless water gleamed softly, and their conversation was soft also. Liza stood on a small raft; Lavretzky sat on the inclined trunk of a willow; Liza wore a white gown, girt about the waist with a broad ribbon, also white in hue; her straw hat was hanging from one hand, with the other, she supported, with some effort, the curved fishing-rod. Lavretzky gazed at the pure, rather severe profile, at her hair tucked behind her ears, at her soft cheeks, which were as sunburned as those of a child,--and said to himself: "O how charmingly thou standest on my pond!" Liza did not turn toward him, but stared at the water,--and half smiled, half screwed up her eyes. The shadow of a linden-tree near at hand fell upon both of them.

"Do you know,"--began Lavretzky:--"I have been thinking a great deal about my last conversation with you, and have come to the conclusion, that you are extraordinarily kind."

"I did not mean it in that way at all ..." Liza began,--and was overcome with shame.

"You are kind,"--repeated Lavretzky. "I am a rough man, but I feel that every one must love you. There's Lemm now, for example: he is simply in love with you."

Liza's brows quivered, rather than contracted; this always happened with her when she heard something disagreeable.

"I felt very sorry for him to-day,"--Lavretzky resumed:--"with his unsuccessful romance. To be young, and be able to do a thing--that can be borne; but to grow old, and not have the power--is painful. And the offensive thing about it is, that you are not conscious when your powers begin to wane. It is difficult for an old man to endure these shocks!...

Look out, the fish are biting at your hook.... They say,"--added Lavretzky, after a brief pause,--"that Vladimir Nikolaitch has written a very pretty romance."

"Yes,"--replied Liza;--"it is a trifle, but it is not bad."

"And what is your opinion,"--asked Lavretzky:--"is he a good musician?"

"It seems to me that he has great talent for music; but up to the present time he has not cultivated it as he should."