Home of the Gentry

  Tormented by exhaustion, before morning he arrived at Lemm’s. It took a while for his knocking to evoke a response; finally there appeared at the window the nightcapped head of the old man looking sour and wrinkled and quite unlike that stern, inspired head which, twenty-four hours before, had looked down upon Lavretsky majestically from the heights of its artistic magnificence.

  ‘What do you want?’ Lemm asked. ‘I can’t play every night, I’ve taken a decoction.’

  But evidently Lavretsky’s face had a strange look: the old man cupped a hand over his eyes, peered at his nocturnal visitor and admitted him.

  Lavretsky entered the room and sank down on to a chair; the old man stopped in front of him and drew the skirts of his threadbare, colourful dressing-gown round him, hugging himself and gnawing his lips.

  ‘My wife has arrived,’ said Lavretsky, raising his head and suddenly, despite himself, burst into laughter.

  Lemm’s face expressed amazement, but he did not even smile, simply pulled the dressing-gown more tightly round him.

  ‘Of course, you don’t know,’ Lavretsky continued, ‘I imagined… I read in a newspaper that she was no longer alive.’

  ‘O-oh, did you read this recently?’ asked Lemm.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘O-oh,’ the old man repeated and raised his eyebrows high. ‘And she’s arrived here?’

  ‘Yes. She’s at my place now; and I’m… I’m an unlucky man.’

  And again he gave a short laugh.

  ‘You are an unlucky man,’ Lemm repeated slowly.

  ‘Christopher Fyodorych,’ Lavretsky began, ‘will you undertake to deliver a note?’

  ‘Hm. May one know to whom?’

  ‘Lizav…’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand. All right. But when should the note be delivered?’

  ‘Tomorrow, as early as possible.’

  ‘Hm. I could send Katrin, my cook. No, I’ll go myself.’

  ‘And you’ll bring me back an answer?’

  ‘And I’ll bring you back an answer.’

  Lemm gave a sigh.

  ‘Yes, my poor young friend, you are indeed an unlucky young man.’

  Lavretsky wrote a couple of words to Liza: he informed her of his wife’s arrival and begged her to let him see her – and flung himself down on the narrow divan with his face to the wall; and the old man lay down on his bed and was restless for a long time, coughing and taking mouthfuls of his decoction.

  Morning came; they both got up. They looked at each other with strange eyes. At that moment Lavretsky wanted to kill himself. Katrin, the cook, brought them some dreadful coffee. It struck eight o’clock. Lemm put on his hat and went out, saying that his lesson at the Kalitins was not until ten but that he would find a suitable excuse. Lavretsky again flung himself down on the little divan, and again bitter laughter rose from the depths of his soul. He thought how his wife had driven him out of his house; he imagined to himself Liza’s position, closed his eyes and folded his hands behind his head. Eventually Lemm returned and brought him a scrap of paper on which Liza had pencilled the following words: ‘We can’t see each other today; perhaps tomorrow evening. Good-bye.’ Lavretsky gave Lemm his dry, confused thanks and went off to his own house.

  He found his wife at breakfast; Ada, her hair a mass of curls, dressed in a pale-white frock with pale-blue ribbons, was eating her mutton cutlet. Varvara Pavlovna rose the instant Lavretsky came into the room and approached him with a look of submissiveness on her face. He asked her to follow him into his study, locked the door behind him and began walking to and fro; she sat down, placing one hand modestly upon the other, and proceeded to follow him with her still beautiful, though slightly touched-up eyes.

  It took Lavretsky some while to begin speaking: he felt that he had no control of himself and he clearly saw that Varvara Pavlovna was not in the least frightened of him, though she pretended to be on the point of fainting.

  ‘Please listen, madam,’ he began at last, breathing heavily and from time to time clenching his teeth. ‘We have no need to pretend to each other; I don’t believe in your repentance; and even if it were sincere, to go back to you again, to live with you – that is impossible for me.’

  Varvara Pavlovna pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. ‘This is repugnance,’ she thought. ‘It’s all over! I’m not even a woman for him.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Lavretsky repeated and buttoned his coat up to the top. ‘I don’t know why it pleased you to come here; probably you had no more money.’

  ‘Oh! You’re insulting me,’ Varvara Pavlovna whispered.

  ‘However that may be – you are, alas, still my wife. I can’t turn you out… and so this is what I propose to you. This very day, if you like, you can go to Lavriki and live there; there is a good house there, you know; you will receive all you need, over and above the allowance…. Do you agree?’

  Varvara Pavlovna raised an embroidered handkerchief to her face.

  ‘I’ve already told you,’ she said, her lips working nervously, ‘that I’ll agree to whatever you think fit to do with me; on this occasion it remains for me to ask you: will you allow me at least to thank you for your magnanimity?’

  ‘Without thanks, I beg you, that way it’s better,’ Lavretsky said hurriedly. ‘So,’ he continued, going to the door, ‘I can count on…’

  ‘Tomorrow I will be in Lavriki,’ said Varvara Pavlovna, rising respectfully from her chair. ‘But, Fyodor Ivanych’ (she no longer called him Theodore)…

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know I have done nothing yet to deserve your forgiveness; can I hope at least that with time…’

  ‘Oh, Varvara Pavlovna,’ Lavretsky interrupted her, ‘you’re a clever woman, but I’m also no fool; I know you don’t need that at all. I forgave you long ago; but between us there was always a bottomless pit.’

  ‘I will learn how to be submissive,’ Varvara Pavlovna responded and bowed her head. ‘I haven’t forgotten my guilt; I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d learned that you even took delight in the news of my death,’ she added meekly, lightly indicating with her hand the newspaper lying forgotten on the table by Lavretsky.

  Fyodor Ivanych shuddered: the report had been marked in pencil. Varvara Pavlovna looked at him with even greater self-abasement. She was very fine at that moment. The grey Parisian dress gracefully shaped itself to her supple, almost seventeen-year-old waist, her delicate, soft neck surrounded by a little white collar, her evenly breathing bosom, her hands bare of rings and bracelets – her whole figure, from her glossy hair down to the tip of her slightly exposed shoe, was so elegant…

  Lavretsky encompassed her with a look of disgust, almost exclaimed: ‘Bravo!’ and was on the point of crowning her with his fist – and went out. An hour later he had already set off for Vasilyevskoye, while two hours later Varvara Pavlovna ordered that the best carriage in town be hired for her, put on a simple straw hat with a black veil and a modest mantle, entrusted Ada to Justine and went to the Kalitins: by questioning her servants she had learned that her husband visited them every day.

  XXXVIII

  THE day of the arrival of Lavretsky’s wife in the town of O…, an unhappy day for him, was a hard day for Liza as well. She had not succeeded in going downstairs and saying good morning to her mother when the sound of horse’s hooves could already be heard from below the window and with secret horror she saw Panshin ride into the courtyard. ‘He has come so early for a final explanation,’ she thought – and she was not mistaken; having chatted about this and that for a while in the drawing-room, he suggested that she accompany him into the garden and there demanded to know what his fate was to be. Liza took her courage into her hands and announced that she could not be his wife. He heard her out, standing sideways to her with his hat pulled down over his forehead; politely, but in a changed voice, he asked her whether this was her last word and whether he had given her any cause to change her mind in such a way. Then he pressed his hand to his eyes, sobbed br
iefly and brokenly, and withdrew his hand from his face.

  ‘I did not want to follow the beaten track,’ he said tonelessly. ‘I wanted to find a wife according to the inclination of my heart, but evidently that was not to be. Good-bye, sweet dreams!’ He bowed low to Liza and returned to the house.

  She hoped that he would leave at once; but he went to the study to see Marya Dmitrievna and stayed there for about an hour. When he came out, he said to Liza: ‘Votre mére vous appelle; adieu à jamais…’, sat astride his horse and started away from the porch at a gallop. Liza went in to Marya Dmitrievna and found her in tears: Panshin had told her of his misfortune.

  ‘Why have you been the death of me? Why?’ was how the embittered widow began her complaints. ‘Who else do you need? What’s wrong with him for a husband? He has a position at court! He doesn’t need to marry for money! In St Petersburg he could marry any lady-in-waiting! But for me, for me, there were such hopes! And how long is it since your feeling for him has changed? This cloud’s been blown up from somewhere, it didn’t come of its own accord. Is it that idiot relative of mine? What an adviser you’ve found!’

  ‘But he, my dear,’ continued Marya Dmitrievna, ‘how honourable he is, how attentive even in his grief! He has promised not to abandon me. Oh, I’ll not survive this! Ah, this headache’ll be the death of me! Send Palashka to me. You’ll kill me if you don’t think again, do you hear?’ And having called her an ungrateful girl a couple more times, Marya Dmitrievna sent Liza away.

  She went to her room. But she had not had time to recover from the scenes with Panshin and her mother before another storm broke over her head, and from a quarter where she had least of all expected it. Marfa Timofeyevna came into her room and at once banged the door behind her. The old lady’s face was pale, her cap askew, her eyes flashed and her hands and lips were quivering. Liza was flabbergasted: she had never seen her clever and discreet aunt in such a state.

  ‘Marvellous, my fine lady,’ Marfa Timofeyevna began in a trembling and broken whisper, ‘marvellous! Who did you learn it all from, my dear…. Give me some water; I can’t say another word.’

  ‘Calm yourself, auntie, what’s wrong with you?’ said Liza, offering her a glass of water. ‘After all you yourself, it seems, were none too fond of Mr Panshin.’

  Marfa Timofeyevna put down the glass.

  ‘I can’t drink a drop. If I do, I’ll knock out what few teeth I’ve got left. What’s this about Panshin? What’s Panshin got to do with it? You’d much better tell me who taught you to go making assignations at night, my dear, eh?’

  Liza went pale.

  ‘Please don’t try denying it,’ Marfa Timofeyevna continued. ‘Shurochka herself saw everything and has told me. I’ve told her not to chatter on so, but she’s not a liar.’

  ‘I’m not going to deny it, auntie,’ Liza murmured scarcely audibly.

  ‘Aha! So that’s how it is, my dear: you did make an assignation with him, with that old sinner, with that meek-and-mild one, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘How did it happen, then?’

  ‘I went down into the drawing-room for a book: he was in the garden – and he called to me.’

  ‘And you went? Marvellous. Are you in love with him, is that it?’

  ‘I’m in love with him,’ Liza answered in a quiet voice.

  ‘Heavens above! She’s in love with him!’ Marfa Timofeyevna pulled the cap off her head. ‘She’s in love with a married man! Eh? She’s in love with him!’

  ‘He told me…’ Liza began.

  ‘What was he saying to you, the darling man, wha-at?’

  ‘He told me his wife had died.’

  Marfa Timofeyevna crossed herself.

  ‘God rest her soul,’ she whispered. ‘An empty-headed wench she was – not that she should be remembered for it. So that’s it: he’s become a widower. And I see he’s not letting the grass grow under his feet. He’s no sooner got rid of one wife than he’s after another. He’s a quiet one, isn’t he? Only I’ll tell you this, niece: in my time, when I was young, girls weren’t let off lightly for such carryings-on. Don’t you be angry with me, my dear; only fools get angry at the truth. I gave orders that he wasn’t to be admitted today. I’m very fond of him, but I’ll never forgive him for this. A widower, indeed! Give me some of that water. And as for you giving Panshin one on the nose, for that you’re in my good books; only don’t go spending your nights sitting about with that breed of goats called men; don’t break my old lady’s heart! Otherwise you’ll find I can do more than mollycoddle, I can bite as well…. A widower!’

  Marfa Timofeyevna went out and Liza sat down in one corner and burst into tears. Her soul was filled with bitterness; she had not deserved such humiliation. Love had not come to her as happiness: for the second time she was in tears since yesterday evening. Her heart had only just given birth to that new, unexpected feeling, and already how heavily she had been made to pay for it, how rudely had others’ hands touched her dearest secret! She felt ashamed and bitter and hurt; but she felt neither doubt, nor fear – and Lavretsky grew even dearer to her. She had hesitated only so long as she did not understand; but after that meeting, after that kiss she could hesitate no longer: she knew she was in love – and had fallen in love honestly, seriously, had committed herself firmly, for the rest of her life – and had no fear of threats: she felt no force on earth could break this bond.

  XXXIX

  MARYA DMITRIEVNA was very alarmed when the arrival of Varvara Pavlovna Lavretsky was announced; she did not even know whether to receive her for fear of offending Fyodor Ivanych. Curiosity finally gained the upper hand. ‘‘Well,’ she thought, ‘she’s a relative, too,’ and, seating herself in an armchair, said to the footman: ‘Show her in!’ A moment or so passed; the door opened; briskly, with barely audible steps, Varvara Pavlovna approached Marya Dmitrievna and, without giving her a chance to rise from the armchair, almost sank on to her knees before her.

  ‘Most gracious thanks, my dear aunt,’ she began in a low, poignant voice, in Russian, ‘most gracious thanks. I did not hope for such condescension on your part. You’re as kind as an angel.’

  Having said these words, Varvara Pavlovna unexpectedly seized Marya Dmitrievna’s hand and, lightly pressing it in her pale-lilac Jouvin gloves1, obsequiously raised it to her full and rosy lips. Marya Dmitrievna was quite at a loss, seeing such a beautiful, exquisitely dressed woman almost at her feet; she had no idea what to do, wanting both to withdraw her hand, and offer her a seat, and say something affectionate to her; she ended by raising herself and kissing Varvara Pavlovna on her smooth and perfumed brow. Varvara Pavlovna was overwhelmed by this kiss.

  ‘How do you do, bonjour,’ said Marya Dmitrievna. ‘Of course I hadn’t imagined… mind you, I am of course glad to see you. You understand, my dear, that it’s not for me to judge between husband and wife…’

  ‘My husband is right in everything,’ Varvara Pavlovna interrupted her. ‘I alone am to blame.’

  ‘Those are very praiseworthy feelings,’ responded Marya Dmitrievna, ‘very. Have you been here long? Have you seen him? Do sit down, please.’

  ‘I arrived yesterday,’ Varvara Pavlovna answered, selfeffacingly taking a seat. ‘I have seen Fyodor Ivanych and I have spoken to him.’

  ‘Ah! Well, and what did he say?’

  ‘I was frightened that my sudden arrival would arouse his anger,’ Varvara Pavlovna continued, ‘but he did not deprive me of his presence.’

  ‘That’s to say, he didn’t…. Yes, yes, I understand,’ Marya Dmitrievna said. ‘He only gives the appearance of being a little uncouth, but he has a soft heart.’

  ‘Fyodor Ivanych did not forgive me; he did not wish to hear me out…. But he was so kind that he assigned me Lavriki as a place to live.’

  ‘Ah! A splendid estate!’

  ‘I am going there tomorrow, in fulfilment of his wishes; but I considered it my duty to pay you a visit beforehand.’

 
‘I am very, very grateful to you, my dear. One should never forget one’s relatives. But do you know something, I am astonished how well you speak Russian. C’est étonnant.’

  Varvara Pavlovna sighed.

  ‘I have been too long abroad, Marya Dmitrievna, I know that; but my heart has always been Russian, and I have not forgotten my homeland.’

  ‘Quite, quite; that is best of all. Fyodor Ivanych, however, was not expecting you at all…. Yes, trust in my experience of things: la patrie avant tout. Ah, do show me, please, what an exquisite mantle you have.’

  ‘Do you like it?’ Varvara Pavlovna quickly took it off her shoulders. ‘It is very simple, from Madame Baudran.’

  ‘You can tell that at once. From Madame Baudran…. How charming and what taste! I feel sure you’ve brought with you a great many fascinating things. I’d love to have a look.’

  ‘My entire wardrobe is at your service, dearest aunt. If you’ll permit it, I can show your maid some things. I have a servant with me from Paris – she’s a remarkable dressmaker.’

  ‘You’re very kind. But, really, I have a bad conscience.’

  ‘A bad conscience…’ repeated Varvara Pavlovna reproachfully. ‘If you want to make me happy, deal with me as with your own property!’

  Marya Dmitrievna’s heart melted.

  ‘Vous êtes charmante,’ she said. ‘Come now, why not take off your hat and gloves?’