Part 38

"Wait, I tell you,"--Lavrétzky interrupted her. "I consent to live with you, Varvára Pávlovna,"--he continued:--"That is to say, I will take you to Lavríki, and I will live with you as long as my strength holds out, and then I shall go away,--and return now and then. You see, I do not wish to deceive you; but do not demand anything more. You yourself would smile, were I to comply with the desire of your respected relative, and press you to my heart, and assure you that ... there had been no past, that the felled tree could burst into blossom once more. But I perceive that I must submit. You will not understand that word; ... it matters not. I repeat, I will live with you ... or, no, I cannot promise that ... I will join you, I will regard you again as my wife...."

"But give her your hand on that, at least,"--said Márya Dmítrievna, whose tears were long since dried up.

"Up to the present moment, I have not deceived Varvára Pávlovna,"--returned Lavrétzky;--"she will believe me as it is. I will take her to Lavríki;--and recollect, Varvára Pávlovna: our compact will be regarded as broken just as soon as you leave that place. And now, permit me to withdraw."

He bowed to both ladies, and hastily quitted the room.

"You are not taking her with you,"--called Márya Dmítrievna after him.... "Let him alone,"--Varvára Pávlovna whispered to her, and immediately threw her arms round her, began to utter thanks, to kiss her hands, and to call her her saviour.

Márya Dmítrievna accepted her caresses with condescension; but in her secret soul she was pleased neither with Lavrétzky nor with Varvára Pávlovna, nor with the whole scene which she had planned. There had turned out to be very little sentimentality; Varvára Pávlovna, in her opinion, should have flung herself at her husband's feet.

"How was it that you did not understand me?"--she commented:--"why, I told you: 'fall at his feet.'"

"It was better thus, dear aunty; do not disturb yourself--everything is all right,"--insisted Varvára Pávlovna.

"Well, and he is as cold as ice,"--remarked Márya Dmítrievna. "Even if you did not weep, why, I fairly overflowed before him. He means to shut you up in Lavríki. The idea,--and you cannot even come to see me! All men are unfeeling,"--she said, in conclusion, and shook her head significantly.

"On the other hand, women know how to value kindness and magnanimity,"--said Varvára Pávlovna, and softly dropping on her knees before Márya Dmítrievna, she embraced the latter's corpulent form with her arms, and pressed her face against her. That face wore a quiet smile, but Márya Dmítrievna's tears were flowing again.

And Lavrétzky went home, locked himself up in his valet's room, flung himself on the divan, and lay there until the morning.

XLIV

The next day was Sunday. The chiming of the bells for the early Liturgy did not awaken Lavrétzky--he had not closed an eye all night long--but it did remind him of another Sunday, when, at the wish of Liza, he had gone to church. He hastily rose; a certain secret voice told him that he would see her there again to-day. He noiselessly quitted the house, ordered Varvára Pávlovna to be informed that he would return to dinner, and with great strides wended his way thither, whither the monotonously-mournful chiming summoned him. He arrived early: there was hardly any one in the church; a chanter in the choir was reading the Hours; his voice, occasionally broken by a cough, boomed on in measured cadence, now rising, now falling. Lavrétzky took up his stand not far from the entrance. The prayerfully inclined arrived one by one, paused, crossed themselves, bowed on all sides; their footsteps resounded in the emptiness and silence, distinctly re-echoing from the arches overhead. A decrepit little old woman, in an ancient hooded cloak, knelt down beside Lavrétzky, and began to pray assiduously; her yellow, toothless, wrinkled face expressed intense emotion; her red eyes gazed fixedly upward at the holy picture on the ikonostásis; her bony hand kept incessantly emerging from under her cloak, and slowly but vigorously made a great, sweeping sign of the cross. A peasant, with a thick beard and a surly face, tousled and dishevelled, entered the church, went down at once on both knees, and immediately set to crossing himself, hastily flinging back his head and shaking it after every prostration. Such bitter woe was depicted on his countenance, and in all his movements, that Lavrétzky made up his mind to approach and ask him what was the matter. The peasant started back timidly and roughly, and looked at him.... "My son is dead,"--he said, in hasty accents--and again began to prostrate himself to the floor. "What can take the place, for them, of the consolation of the church?"--Lavrétzky thought,--and tried to pray himself; but his heart had grown heavy and hard, and his thoughts were far away. He was still expecting Liza--but Liza did not come. The church began to fill with people; still she did not come. The Liturgy began, the deacon had already read the Gospel, the bell had pealed for the hymn "Worthy"; Lavrétzky moved a little,--and suddenly caught sight of Liza. She had arrived before him, but he had not descried her; crowded into the space between the wall and the choir, she neither glanced around nor moved. Lavrétzky did not take his eyes from her until the very end of the Liturgy: he was bidding her farewell. The congregation began to disperse, but she still stood on; she seemed to be awaiting Lavrétzky's departure. At last, she crossed herself for the last time, and went away, without looking round; she had only a maid with her. Lavrétzky followed her out of the church, and overtook her in the street; she was walking very rapidly, with her head bowed and her veil lowered over her face.

"Good morning, Lizavéta Mikhaílovna,"--said he, loudly, with forced ease:--"may I accompany you?"

She said nothing; he walked along by her side.

"Are you satisfied with me?"--he asked her, lowering his voice.--"You have heard what took place last night?"

"Yes, yes,"--she said in a whisper:--"you did well."

And she walked on faster than ever.

"You are satisfied?"

Liza only nodded her head.

"Feódor Ivánitch,"--she began, in a composed, but weak voice:--"I have wanted to ask you: do not come to our house again; go away as speedily as possible; we can see each other later on,--sometime, a year hence. But now, do this for me; comply with my request, for God's sake."

"I am ready to obey you in all things, Lizavéta Mikhaílovna; but is it possible that we are to part thus? will you not say a single word to me?"

"Feódor Ivánitch, here you are now, walking by my side. But you are already far away from me. And not you alone, but also...."

"Finish, I entreat you!"--exclaimed Lavrétzky:--"what is it that you mean to say?"

"You will hear, perhaps ... but whatever happens, forget ... no, do not forget me,--remember me."

"I forget you!..."

"Enough; farewell. Do not follow me."

"Liza ..."--Lavrétzky was beginning.