Part 22 (2/2)

For rather more than three years Agafia waited upon Liza. She was replaced by Mademoiselle Moreau; but the frivolous Frenchwoman, with her dry manner and her constant exclamation, _Tout ca c'est des betises_! could not expel from Liza's heart the recollection of her much-loved nurse. The seeds that had been sown had pushed their roots too far for that. After that Agafia, although she had ceased to attend Liza, remained for some time longer in the house, and often saw her pupil, and treated her as she had been used to do.

But when Marfa Timofeevna entered the Kalitines' house, Agafia did not get on well with her. The austere earnestness of the former ”wearer of the coa.r.s.e petticoat.” [Footnote: The _Panovnitsa_, or wearer of the _Panovna_, a sort of petticoat made of a coa.r.s.e stuff of motley hue.]

did not please the impatient and self-willed old lady. Agafia obtained leave to go on a pilgrimage, and she never came back. Vague rumors a.s.serted that she had retired into a schismatic convent. But the impression left by her on Liza's heart did not disappear. Just as before, the girl went to ma.s.s, as if she were going to a festival; and when in church prayed with enthusiasm, with a kind of restrained and timid rapture, at which her mother secretly wondered not a little.

Even Marfa Timofeevna, although she never put any constraint upon Liza, tried to induce her to moderate her zeal, and would not let her make so many prostrations. It was not a lady-like habit, she said.

Liza was a good scholar, that is, a persevering one; she was not gifted with a profound intellect, or with extraordinarily brilliant faculties, and nothing yielded to her without demanding from her no little exertion. She was a good pianiste, but no one else, except Lemm, knew how much that accomplishment had cost her. She did not read much, and she had no ”words of her own;” but she had ideas of her own, and she went her own way. In this matter, as well as in personal appearance, she may have taken after her father, for he never used to ask any one's advice as to what he should do.

And so she grew up, and So did her life pa.s.s, gently and tranquilly, until she had attained her nineteenth year. She was very charming, but she was not conscious of the fact. In all her movements, a natural, somewhat unconventional, grace, revealed itself; in her voice there sounded the silver notes of early youth. The slightest pleasurable sensation would bring a fascinating smile to her lips, and add a deeper light, a kind of secret tenderness, to her already l.u.s.trous eyes. Kind and soft-hearted, thoroughly penetrated by a feeling of duty, and a fear of injuring any one in any way, she was attached to all whom she knew, but to no one person in particular. To G.o.d alone did she consecrate her love--loving Him with a timid, tender enthusiasm. Until Lavretsky came, no one had troubled the calmness of her inner life.

Such was Liza.

x.x.xIV.

About the middle of the next day Lavretsky went to the Kalitines'. On his way there he met Pans.h.i.+ne, who galloped past on horseback, his hat pulled low over his eyes. At the Kalitines', Lavretsky was not admitted, for the first time since he had made acquaintance with the family. Maria Dmitrievna was asleep, the footman declared; her head ached, Marfa Timofeevna and Lizaveta Mikhailovna were not at home.

Lavretsky walked round the outside of the garden in the vague hope of meeting Liza, but he saw no one. Two hours later he returned to the house, but received the same answer as before; moreover, the footman looked at him in a somewhat marked manner. Lavretsky thought it would be unbecoming to call three times in one day, so he determined to drive out to Vasilievskoe, where, moreover, he had business to transact.

On his way there he framed various plans, each one more charming than the rest. But on his arrival at his aunt's estate, sadness took hold of him. He entered into conversation with Anton; but the old man, as if purposely, would dwell on none but gloomy ideas. He told Lavretsky how Glafira Petrovna, just before her death, had bitten her own hand.

And then, after an interval of silence, he added with a sigh, ”Every man, _barin batyushka_,[A] is destined to devour himself.”

[Footnote A: Seigneur, father.]

It was late in the day before Lavretsky set out on his return. The music he had heard the night before came back into his mind, and the image of Liza dawned on his heart in all its sweet serenity. He was touched by the thought that she loved him; and he arrived at his little house in the town, tranquillized and happy.

The first thing that struck him when he entered the vestibule, was a smell of patchouli, a perfume he disliked exceedingly. He observed that a number of large trunks and boxes were standing there, and he thought there was a strange expression on the face of the servant who hastily came to meet him. He did not stop to a.n.a.lyze his impressions, but went straight into the drawing-room.

A lady, who wore a black silk dress with flounces, and whose pale face was half hidden by a cambric handkerchief, rose from the sofa, took a few steps to meet him, bent her carefully-arranged and perfumed locks--and fell at his feet. Then for the first time, he recognized her. That lady was his wife!

His breathing stopped. He leaned against the wall.

”Do not drive me from you, Theodore!” she said in French; and her voice cut him to the heart like a knife. He looked at her without comprehending what he saw, and yet, at the same time, he involuntarily remarked that she had grown paler and stouter.

”Theodore!” she continued, lifting her eyes from time to time towards heaven, her exceedingly pretty fingers, tipped with polished nails of rosy hue, writhing the while in preconcerted agonies--”Theodore, I am guilty before you--deeply guilty. I will say more--I am a criminal; but hear what I have to say. I am tortured by remorse; I have become a burden to myself; I can bear my position no longer. Ever so many times I have thought of addressing you, but I was afraid of your anger. But I have determined to break every tie with the past--_puis, j'ai ete si malade_. I was so ill,” she added, pa.s.sing her hand across her brow and cheek, ”I took advantage of the report which was spread abroad of my death, and I left everything. Without stopping anywhere, I travelled day and night to come here quickly. For a long time I was in doubt whether to appear before you, my judge--_paraitre devant vous man juge_; but at last I determined to go to you, remembering your constant goodness. I found out your address in Moscow. Believe me,”

she continued, quietly rising from the ground and seating herself upon the very edge of an arm-chair, ”I often thought of death, and I could have found sufficient courage in my heart to deprive myself of life--ah! life is an intolerable burden to me now--but the thought of my child, my little Ada, prevented me. She is here now; she is asleep in the next room, poor child. She is tired out You will see her, won't you? She, at all events, is innocent before you; and so unfortunate--so unfortunate!” exclaimed Madame Lavretsky, and melted into tears.

Lavretsky regained his consciousness at last. He stood away from the wall, and turned towards the door.

”You are going away?” exclaimed his wife, in accents of despair. ”Oh, that is cruel! without saying a single word to me--not even one of reproach! This contempt kills me; it is dreadful!”

Lavretsky stopped.

”What do you want me to say to you?” he said in a hollow tone.

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