In the morning he was chilled through, and entered a wretched suburban inn, asked for a room, and seated himself on a chair by the window. A convulsive yawning seized hold upon him. He could hardly stand on his feet, his body was exhausted,--but he was conscious of no fatigue,--yet fatigue claimed its rights: he sat and stared, and understood nothing; he did not understand what had happened to him, why he found himself alone, with benumbed limbs, with a bitterness in his mouth, with a stone on his breast, in a bare, strange room; he did not understand what had made her, Varya, give herself to that Frenchman, and how she had been able, knowing herself to be unfaithful, to be as calm, amiable, and confiding toward him as before! "I understand nothing!" whispered his parched lips.

"Who will guarantee me now, that in Petersburg...." And he did not finish the question, and yawned again, quivering and writhing all over. The bright and the dark memories tormented him equally; it suddenly occurred to him, that a few days previously, in his presence and in that of Ernest, she had seated herself at the piano and had sung: "Old husband, menacing husband!" He recalled the expression of her face, the strange glitter of her eyes, and the flush on her cheeks,--and he rose from his chair; he wanted to go and to say to them: "You have made a mistake in trifling with me; my great-grandfather used to hang the peasants up by the ribs, and my grandfather himself was a peasant"--and kill them both.

Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to him, that everything which was taking place with him was a dream, and not even a dream, but merely some nonsense or other: that all he had to do was to shake himself, to look about him.... He did look about him, and as the hawk buries his claws in the bird he has captured, anguish pierced more and more deeply into his heart. To crown all, Lavretzky was hoping at the end of a few months to become a father.... The past, the future, his whole life was poisoned. He returned, at last, to Paris, put up at a hotel, and sent Varvara Pavlovna the note of M--r Ernest, with the following letter:

"The accompanying doc.u.ment will explain everything to you. I will say to you, by the way, that I did not recognise you: you, always such a precise person, to drop such an important paper!" (This phrase poor Lavretzky had prepared and cherished for the s.p.a.ce of several hours.) "I can see you no more; I a.s.sume that you, also, cannot wish to meet me. I have a.s.signed fifteen thousand francs a year to you; I cannot give more. Send your address to the office of the estate. Do what you will, live where you please. I wish you happiness. No answer is necessary."

Lavretzky wrote to his wife, that no answer was necessary ... but he waited, he thirsted for an answer, an explanation of this incomprehensible, this incredible affair. Varvara Pavlovna, that very day, sent him a long letter in French. It made an end of him; his last doubts vanished,--and he felt ashamed that he had still cherished doubts. Varvara Pavlovna did not defend herself: she merely wished to see him, she entreated him not to condemn her irrevocably. The letter was cold and constrained, although the traces of tears were visible here and there. Lavretzky uttered a bitter laugh, and bade the messenger say that it was all very good. Three days later, he had quitted Paris: but he went, not to Russia, but to Italy. He himself did not know why he had chosen Italy, in particular; in reality, it made no difference to him whither he went,--provided it were not home. He sent instructions to his peasant-steward in regard to his wife's pension, ordered him, at the same time, to take all matters pertaining to the estate instantly out of the hands of General Korobyn, without awaiting the surrender of the accounts, and to make arrangements for the departure of His Excellency from Lavriki; he formed a vivid picture to himself, of the consternation, the fruitless haughtiness of the ejected General, and, with all his grief, he felt a certain malicious satisfaction. Then he invited Glafira Petrovna, in a letter also, to return to Lavriki, and sent her a power of attorney. Glafira Petrovna did not return to Lavriki, and herself published in the newspapers that she had destroyed the power of attorney, which was quite superfluous. Hiding himself in a small Italian town, it was a long time still before Lavretzky could force himself not to watch his wife. He learned from the newspapers, that she had quitted Paris, as it was supposed, for Baden-Baden: her name soon made its appearance in an article written by that same M'sieu Jules. In this article, a sort of friendly condolence pierced through the customary playfulness; Feodor Ivanitch's soul was in a very ugly state when he read that article. Later on, he learned that a daughter had been born to him; at the end of a couple of months, he was informed by his peasant-steward, that Varvara Pavlovna had demanded the first third of her allowance. Then more and more evil reports began to arrive; at last, a tragicomic tale made the rounds--creating a sensation--of the newspapers, wherein his wife played an unenviable part. All was at an end: Varvara Pavlovna had become "a celebrity."

Lavretzky ceased to follow her career; but he was not able speedily to conquer himself. At times, he was seized with such a longing for his wife, that it seemed to him, he would give everything--he would even, if necessary ... forgive her--if only he might again hear her caressing voice, again feel her hand in his hand. But time went on, and not in vain. He was not born to be a martyr; his healthy nature a.s.serted its rights. Much became clear to him; the very blow which had a.s.sailed him, no longer seemed to him unforeseen; he understood his wife,--one understands a person who is near to one, when parted from him. Again he was able to occupy himself, to work, although with far less zeal than of yore: scepticism, for which the way had been prepared by the experiences of life, by his education, definitively took possession of his soul. He became extremely indifferent to everything. Four years elapsed, and he felt himself strong enough to return to his native land, to meet his own people. Without halting either in Petersburg or Moscow, he arrived in the town of O * * * where we took leave of him, and whither we now beg the indulgent reader to return with us.

XVII

On the morning following the day which we have described, at nine o'clock, Lavretzky ascended the porch of the Kalitin house. Liza emerged to meet him, in hat and gloves.

"Where are you going?" he asked her.

"To church. To-day is Sunday."

"And do you really care to go to the Liturgy?"

Liza said nothing, but gazed at him in amazement.

"Pardon me, please,"--said Lavretzky,--"I ... I did not mean to say that. I came to say good-bye to you: I am going to my country place an hour hence."

"It is not far from here, is it?"--inquired Liza.

"Twenty-five versts."

Lyenotchka made her appearance on the threshold of the door, accompanied by a maid.

"See that you do not forget us,"--said Liza, and descended the steps.

"And do not you forget me. And see here,"--he added,--"you are going to church: pray for me also, by the way."

Liza paused and turned toward him.

"Certainly,"--she said, looking him straight in the face:--"I will pray for you. Come along, Lyenotchka."

Lavretzky found Marya Dmitrievna alone in the drawing-room. An odour of eau de cologne and mint emanated from her. She had a headache, according to her own account, and she had pa.s.sed a restless night. She welcomed him with her customary languid amiability, and gradually got to talking.

"What an agreeable young man Vladimir Nikolaitch is," she inquired:--"is he not?"

"What Vladimir Nikolaitch?"

"Why, Panshin, you know,--the one who was here yesterday evening. He took an immense liking to you; I will tell you, as a secret, _mon cher cousin_, he is simply beside himself over my Liza. What do you think of that? He comes of a good family, he discharges his service splendidly, he is clever, well, and a Junior Gentleman of the Bedchamber, and if it be G.o.d's will.... I, on my side, as a mother, shall be very glad. It is a great responsibility, of course: up to the present time, whether it be for good or evil, you see, I am always, everywhere, entirely alone: I have reared my children, I have taught them, I have done everything ...

and now I have ordered a governess from Mme. Bolius...."

Marya Dmitrievna launched out into a description of her toils, her efforts, and her maternal feelings. Lavretzky listened to her in silence, and twirled his hat in his hands. His cold, heavy gaze disconcerted the loquacious lady.

"And how do you like Liza?"--she asked.

"Lizaveta Mikhailovna is an extremely beautiful girl,"--replied Lavretzky, rose, bowed, and went to Marfa Timofeevna. Marya Dmitrievna gazed after him with displeasure, and said to herself: "What a dolt, what a peasant! Well, now I understand why his wife could not remain faithful to him."

Marfa Timofeevna was sitting in her own room, surrounded by her suite.

It consisted of five beings, almost equally near to her heart: a fat-jowled trained bullfinch, which she loved because he had ceased to whistle and draw water; a tiny, very timorous and peaceable dog, Roska; an angry cat Matros (Sailor); a black-visaged nimble little girl of nine, with huge eyes and a sharp little nose, who was named Schurotchka; and an elderly woman, fifty years of age, in a white cap, and a light brown, bob-tailed jacket over a dark gown, by name Nastasya Karpovna Ogarkoff. Schurotchka was of the petty burgher cla.s.s, a full orphan.

Marfa Timofeevna had taken charge of her out of pity, as she had of Roska: she had picked up both the dog and the girl in the street; both were thin and hungry, both were being drenched by the autumnal rain, no one had hunted up Roska, and Schurotchka's uncle, a drunken shoemaker, who had not enough to eat himself, and who did not feed his niece, though he beat her over the head with his last, gladly surrendered her to Marfa Timofeevna. With Nastasya Karpovna, Marfa Timofeevna had made acquaintance on a pilgrimage, in a monastery; she herself had gone up to her in church (Marfa Timofeevna liked her because, to use her own words, "she prayed tastily"), had herself begun the conversation, and had invited her to come to her for a cup of tea. From that day forth, she had never parted with her. Nastasya Karpovna was a woman of the merriest and gentlest disposition, a childless widow, member of a poverty-stricken family of the petty n.o.bility; she had a round, grey head, soft white hands, a soft face, with large, kindly features, and a rather ridiculous snub nose; she fairly worshipped Marfa Timofeevna, and the latter loved her greatly, although she jeered at her tender heart: Nastasya Karpovna felt a weakness for all young people, and involuntarily blushed like a girl at the most innocent jest. Her entire capital consisted of twelve hundred paper rubles; she lived at the expense of Marfa Timofeevna, but on equal terms with her: Marfa Timofeevna would not have tolerated servility.

"Ah, Fedya!" she began, as soon as she caught sight of him:--"last night, thou didst not see my family: admire it. We are all a.s.sembled for tea; this is our second, feast-day tea. Thou mayest pet all: only Schurotchka will not allow thee, and the cat scratches. Art thou going away to-day?"

"Yes,"--Lavretzky seated himself on a narrow little chair.--"I have already said farewell to Marya Dmitrievna. I have also seen Lizaveta Mikhailovna."

"Call her Liza, my father,--why should she be Mikhailovna to thee! And sit still, or thou wilt break Schurotchka's chair."

"She has gone to church,"--pursued Lavretzky. "Is she pious?"

"Yes, Fedya,--very. More than thou and I, Fedya."

"But are not you pious?"--remarked Nastasya Karpovna, in a whisper.

"And to-day: you did not get to the early Liturgy, but you will go to the later one."

"Not a bit of it--thou wilt go alone: I am lazy, my mother,"--retorted Marfa Timofeevna,--"I am pampering myself greatly with my tea."--She called Nastasya _thou_, although she lived on equal terms with her,--she was not a Pestoff for nothing: three Pestoffs are recorded with distinction in the Book of Remembrance of Ivan Vasilievitch, the Terrible;[7] Marfa Timofeevna knew it.

"Tell me, please,"--began Lavretzky again:--"Marya Dmitrievna has just been talking about that ... what's his name ... Panshin. What sort of a person is he?"

"What a chatterbox, the Lord forgive her!"--grumbled Marfa Timofeevna:--"I suppose she imparted to you, as a secret, what a fine suitor has turned up. She might do her whispering with her priest's son; but no, that is not enough for her. But there's nothing in it, as yet, and thank G.o.d for that! but she's babbling already."

"Why 'thank G.o.d'?"--asked Lavretzky.

"Why, because the young fellow does not please me; and what is there to rejoice about?"

"He does not please you?"

"Yes, he cannot fascinate everybody. It's enough that Nastasya Karpovna here should be in love with him."

The poor widow was thoroughly startled.

"What makes you say that, Marfa Timofeevna? You do not fear G.o.d!"--she exclaimed, and a blush instantly suffused her face and neck.

"And he certainly knows the rogue,"--Marfa Timofeevna interrupted her:--"he knows how to captivate her: he presented her with a snuff-box.

Fedya, ask her to give thee a pinch of snuff; thou wilt see what a splendid snuff-box it is: on the lid is depicted a hussar on horseback.

Thou hadst better not defend thyself, my mother."

Nastasya Karpovna merely repelled the suggestion with a wave of her hands.

"Well,"--inquired Lavretzky,--"and is Liza not indifferent to him?"