Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (36 page)

Chapter XXXVII

For more than two hours Lavretsky wandered about the streets of town. The night he had spent in the outskirts of Paris returned to his mind. His heart was bursting and his head, dull and stunned, was filled again with the same dark senseless angry thoughts, constantly recurring. “She is alive, she is here,” he muttered with ever fresh amazement. He felt that he had lost Lisa. His wrath choked him; this blow had fallen too suddenly upon him. How could he so readily have believed in the nonsensical gossip of a journal, a wretched scrap of paper? “Well, if I had not believed it,” he thought, “what difference would it have made? I should not have known that Lisa loved me; she would not have known it herself.” He could not rid himself of the image, the voice, the eyes of his wife... and he cursed himself, he cursed everything in the world.

Wearied out he went towards morning to Lemm’s. For a long while he could make no one hear; at last at a window the old man’s head appeared in a nightcap, sour, wrinkled, and utterly unlike the inspired austere visage which twenty - four hours ago had looked down imperiously upon Lavretsky in all the dignity of artistic grandeur.

“What do you want?” queried Lemm. “I can’t play to you every night, I have taken a decoction for a cold.” But Lavretsky’s face, apparently, struck him as strange; the old man made a shade for his eyes with his hand, took a look at his elated visitor, and let him in.

Lavretsky went into the room and sank into a chair. The old man stood still before him, wrapping the skirts of his shabby striped dressing - gown around him, shrinking together and gnawing his lips.

“My wife is here,” Lavretsky brought out. He raised his head and suddenly broke into involuntary laughter.

Lemm’s face expressed bewilderment, but he did not even smile, only wrapped himself closer in his dressing - gown.

“Of course, you don’t know,” Lavretsky went on, “I had imagined... I read in a paper that she was dead.”

“O — oh, did you read that lately?” asked Lemm.

“Yes, lately.”

“O — oh,” repeated the old man, raising his eyebrows. “And she is here?”

“Yes. She is at my house now; and I... I am an unlucky fellow.”

And he laughed again.

“You are an unlucky fellow,” Lemm repeated slowly.

“Christopher Fedoritch,” began Lavretsky, “would you undertake to carry a note for me?”

“H’m. May I know to whom?”

“Lisavet — ”

“Ah... yes, yes, I understand. Very good. And when must the letter be received?”

“To - morrow, as early as possible.”

“H’m. I can send Katrine, my cook. No, I will go myself.”

“And you will bring me an answer?”

“Yes, I will bring you an answer.”

Lemm sighed.

“Yes, my poor young friend; you are certainly an unlucky young man.”

Lavretsky wrote a few words to Lisa. He told her of his wife’s arrival, begged her to appoint a meeting with him, — then he flung himself on the narrow sofa, with his face to the wall; and the old man lay down on the bed, and kept muttering a long while, coughing and drinking off his decoction by gulps.

The morning came; they both got up. With strange eyes they looked at one another. At that moment Lavretsky longed to kill himself. The cook, Katrine, brought them some villainous coffee. It struck eight. Lemm put on his hat, and saying that he was going to give a lesson at the Kalitins’ at ten, but he could find a suitable pretext for going there now, he set off. Lavretsky flung himself again on the little sofa, and once more the same bitter laugh stirred in the depth of his soul. He thought of how his wife had driven him out of his house; he imagined Lisa’s position, covered his eyes and clasped his hands behind his head. At last Lemm came back and brought him a scrap of paper, on which Lisa had scribbled in pencil the following words: “We cannot meet to - day; perhaps, to - morrow evening. Good - bye.” Lavretsky thanked Lemm briefly and indifferently, and went home.

He found his wife at breakfast; Ada, in curl - papers, in a little white frock with blue ribbons, was eating her mutton cutlet. Varvara Pavlovna rose at once directly Lavretsky entered the room, and went to meet him with humility in her face. He asked her to follow him into the study, shut the door after them, and began to walk up and down; she sat down, modestly laying one hand over the other, and began to follow his movements with her eyes, which were still beautiful, though they were pencilled lightly under their lids.

For some time Lavretsky could not speak; he felt that he could not master himself, he saw clearly that Varvara Pavlovna was not in the least afraid of him, but was assuming an appearance of being ready to faint away in another instant.

“Listen, madam,” he began at last, breathing with difficulty and at moments setting his teeth: “it is useless for us to make pretense with one another; I don’t believe in your penitence; and even if it were sincere, to be with you again, to live with you, would be impossible for me.”

Varvara Pavlovna bit her lips and half - closed her eyes. “It is aversion,” she thought; “all is over; in his eyes I am not even a woman.”

“Impossible,” repeated Lavretsky, fastening the top buttons of his coat. “I don’t know what induced you to come here; I suppose you have come to the end of your money.”

“Ah! you hurt me!” whispered Varvara Pavlovna.

“However that may be — you are, any way, my wife, unhappily. I cannot drive you away... and this is the proposal I make you. You may to - day, if you like, set off to Lavriky, and live there; there is, as you know, a good house there; you will have everything you need in addition to your allowance... Do you agree?” — Varvara Pavlovna raised an embroidered handkerchief to her face.

“I have told you already,” she said, her lips twitching nervously, “that I will consent to whatever you think fit to do with me; at present it only remains for me to beg of you — will you allow me at least to thank you for your magnanimity?”

“No thanks, I beg — it is better without that,” Lavretsky said hurriedly. “So then,” he pursued, approaching the door, “I may reckon on — ”

“To - morrow I will be at Lavriky,” Varvara Pavlovna declared, rising respectfully from her place. “But Fedor Ivanitch — ” (She no longer called him “Theodore.”)

“What do you want?”

“I know, I have not yet gained any right to forgiveness; may I hope at least that with time — ”

“Ah, Varvara Pavlovna,” Lavretsky broke in, “you are a clever woman, but I too am not a fool; I know that you don’t want forgiveness in the least. And I have forgiven you long ago; but there was always a great gulf between us.”

“I know how to submit,” rejoined Varvara Pavlovna, bowing her head. “I have not forgotten my sin; I should not have been surprised if I had learnt that you even rejoiced at the news of my death,” she added softly, slightly pointing with her hand to the copy of the journal which was lying forgotten by Lavretsky on the table.

Fedor Ivanitch started; the paper had been marked in pencil. Varvara Pavlovna gazed at him with still greater humility. She was superb at that moment. Her grey Parisian gown clung gracefully round her supple, almost girlish figure; her slender, soft neck, encircled by a white collar, her bosom gently stirred by her even breathing, her hands innocent of bracelets and rings — her whole figure, from her shining hair to the tip of her just visible little shoe, was so artistic...

Lavretsky took her in with a glance of hatred; scarcely could he refrain from crying: “Bravo!” scarcely could he refrain from felling her with a blow of his fist on her shapely head — and he turned on his heel. An hour later he had started for Vassilyevskoe, and two hours later Varvara Pavlovna had bespoken the best carriage in the town, had put on a simple straw hat with a black veil, and a modest mantle, given Ada into the charge of Justine, and set off to the Kalitins’. From the inquiries she had made among the servants, she had learnt that her husband went to see them every day.

Chapter XXXVIII

The day of the arrival of Lavretsky’s wife at the town of O —
 
— - , a sorrowful day for him, and been also a day of misery for Lisa. She had not had time to go down - stairs and say good - morning to her mother, when the tramp of hoofs was heard under the window, and with a secret dismay she saw Panshin riding into the courtyard. “He has come so early for a final explanation,” she thought, and she was not mistaken. After a turn in the drawing - room, he suggested that she should go with him into the garden, and then asked her for the decision of his fate. Lisa summoned up all her courage and told him that she could not be his wife. He heard her to the end, standing on one side of her and pulling his hat down over his forehead; courteously, but in a changed voice, he asked her, “Was this her last word, and had he given her any ground for such a change in her views?” — then pressed his hand to his eyes, sighed softly and abruptly, and took his head away from his face again.

“I did not want to go along the beaten track,” he said huskily. “I wanted to choose a wife according to the dictates of my heart; but it seems this was not to be. Farewell, fond dream!” He made Lisa a profound bow, and went back into the house.

She hoped that he would go away at once; but he went into Marya Dmitrievna’s room and remained nearly an hour with her. As he came out, he said to Lisa: “Votre mere vous appelle; adieu a jamais,”... mounted his horse, and set off at full trot from the very steps. Lisa went in to Marya Dmitrievna and found her in tears; Panshin had informed her of his ill - luck.

“Do you want to be the death of me? Do you want to be the death of me?” was how the disconsolate widow began her lamentations. “Whom do you want? Wasn’t he good enough for you? A kammer - junker! not interesting! He might have married any Maid of Honour he liked in Petersburg. And I — I had so hoped for it! Is it long that you have changed towards him? How has this misfortune come on us, — it cannot have come of itself! Is it that dolt of a cousin’s doing? A nice person you have picked up to advise you!”

“And he, poor darling,” Marya Dmitrievna went on, “how respectful he is, how attentive even in his sorrow! He has promised not to desert me. Ah, I can never bear that! Ah, my head aches fit to split! Send me Palashka. You will be the death of me, if you don’t think better of it, — do you hear?”

And, calling her twice an ungrateful girl, Marya Dmitrievna dismissed her.

She went to her own room. But she had not had time to recover from her interviews with Panshin and her mother before another storm broke over head, and this time from a quarter from which she would least have expected it. Marfa Timofyevna came into her room, and at once slammed the door after her. The old lady’s face was pale, her cap was awry, her eyes were flashing, and her hands and lips were trembling. Lisa was astonished; she had never before seen her sensible and reasonable aunt in such a condition.

“A pretty thing, miss,” Marfa Timofyevna began in a shaking and broken whisper, “a pretty thing! Who taught you such ways, I should like to know, miss?... Give me some water; I can’t speak.”

“Calm yourself, auntie, what is the matter?” said Lisa, giving her a glass of water. “Why, I thought you did not think much of Mr. Panshin yourself.”

Marfa Timofyevna pushed away the glass.

“I can’t drink; I shall knock my last teeth out if I try to. What’s Panshin to do with it? Why bring Panshin in? You had better tell me who has taught you to make appointments at night — eh? miss?”

Lisa turned pale.

“Now, please, don’t try to deny it,” pursued Marfa Timofyevna; “Shurotchka herself saw it all and told me. I have had to forbid her chattering, but she is not a liar.”

“I don’t deny it, auntie,” Lisa uttered scarcely audibly.

“Ah, ah! That’s it, is it, miss; you made an appointment with him, that old sinner, who seems so meek?”

“No.”

“How then?”

“I went down into the drawing - room for a book; he was in the garden — and he called me.”

“And you went? A pretty thing! So you love him, eh?”

“I love him,” answered Lisa softly.

“Merciful Heavens! She loves him!” Marfa Timofyevna snatched off her cap. “She loves a married man! Ah! she loves him.”

“He told me”...began Lisa.

“What has he told you, the scoundrel, eh?”

“He told me that his wife was dead.”

Marfa Timofyevna crossed herself. “Peace be with her,” she muttered; “she was a vain hussy, God forgive her. So, then, he’s a widower, I suppose. And he’s losing no time, I see. He has buried one wife and now he’s after another. He’s a nice person: only let me tell you one thing, niece; in my day, when I was young, harm came to young girls from such goings on. Don’t be angry with me, my girl, only fools are angry at the truth. I have given orders not to admit him to - day. I love him, but I shall never forgive him for this. Upon my word, a widower! Give me some water. But as for your sending Panshin about his business, I think you’re a first - rate girl for that. Only don’t you go sitting of nights with any animals of that sort; don’t break my old heart, or else you’ll see I’m not all fondness — I can bite too... a widower!”

Marfa Timofyevna went off, and Lisa sat down in a corner and began to cry. There was bitterness in her soul. She had not deserved such humiliation. Love had proved no happiness to her: she was weeping for a second time since yesterday evening. This new unexpected feeling had only just arisen in her heart, and already what a heavy price she had paid for it, how coarsely had strange hands touched her sacred secret. She felt ashamed, and bitter, and sick; but she had no doubt and no dread — and Lavretsky was dearer to her than ever. She had hesitated while she did not understand herself; but after that meeting, after that kiss — she could hesitate no more: she knew that she loved, and now she loved honestly and seriously, she was bound firmly for all her life, and she did not fear reproaches. She felt that by no violence could they break that bond.