Part 39

"Farewell, farewell!"--she repeated, dropped her veil still lower, and advanced almost at a run.

Lavrétzky gazed after her, and dropping his head, went back down the street. He hit upon Lemm, who was also walking along, with his hat pulled down on his nose, and staring at the ground under his feet.

They stared at each other in silence.

"Well, what have you to say?"--said Lavrétzky at last.

"What have I to say?"--returned Lemm surlily:--"I have nothing to say. Everything is dead, and we are dead. (Alles ist todt und wir sind todt.) You are going to the right, I think?"

"Yes."

"Then I go to the left. Good-bye."

On the following morning, Feódor Ivánitch and his wife set out for Lavríki. She drove in front, in the carriage, with Ada and Justine; he came behind, in his tarantás. The pretty little girl never quitted the carriage-window during the whole journey; she was surprised at everything: at the peasants, the peasant women, the wells, the shaft-arches, the carriage-bells, at the multitude of jackdaws; Justine shared her surprise. Varvára Pávlovna laughed at their comments and exclamations.... She was in high spirits; before their departure from the town of O * * * she had had an explanation with her husband.

"I understand your position,"--she had said to him,--and he, from the expression of her clever eyes, was able to conclude that she did fully understand his position,--"but you must do me the justice, at least, to say that I am easy to live with; I shall not obtrude myself upon you, embarrass you; I wanted to assure Ada's future. I need nothing further."

"Yes, and you have attained your object,"--said Feódor Ivánitch.

"My sole idea now is to shut myself up in the wilds; I shall forever remember your good deed in my prayers...."

"Faugh!... enough of that,"--he interrupted her.

"And I shall know how to respect your independence, and your repose,"--she completed her phrase, which she had prepared in advance.

Lavrétzky had made her a low bow. Varvára Pávlovna understood that her husband, in his soul, was grateful to her.

On the second day, toward the evening, they reached Lavríki; a week later, Lavrétzky set off for Moscow, leaving his wife five thousand rubles for her expenses--and the day after Lavrétzky's departure, Pánshin, whom Varvára Pávlovna had begged not to forget her in her isolation, made his appearance. She gave him the warmest sort of a welcome, and until late into the night the lofty rooms of the house and the very garden rang with the sounds of music, singing, and merry French speeches. Pánshin visited Varvára Pávlovna for three days; when he took leave of her, and warmly pressed her beautiful hands, he promised to return very soon--and he kept his promise.

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That is--they figuratively begged the pardon of all whom they might have offended, before entering on the Church service. The officiating priest does the same.--Translator.

"Worthy and right is it, to bow down to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, to the Trinity, consubstantial and indivisible"--at a very solemn point, and quite late in the Liturgy.--Translator.

XLV

Liza had a separate little room, on the second story of her mother's house, small, clean, bright, with a white bed, pots of flowers in the corners and in front of the holy pictures, with a tiny writing-table, a case of books, and a crucifix on the wall. This little chamber was called the nursery; Liza had been born in it. On returning to it from church, where she had seen Lavrétzky, she put everything in order, even more carefully than usual, wiped the dust off everything, looked over and tied up with ribbons her note-books and the letters of her friends, locked all the drawers, watered the plants, and touched every flower with her hand. She did all this without haste, without noise, with a certain touched and tranquil solicitude on her face. She halted, at last, in the middle of the room, slowly looked around her, and stepping up to the table over which hung the crucifix, she knelt down, laid her head on her clasped hands, and remained motionless.

Márfa Timoféevna entered, and found her in this position. Liza did not notice her entrance. The old woman went outside the door, on tiptoe, and gave vent to several loud coughs. Liza rose quickly to her feet, and wiped her eyes, in which glittered clear tears which had not fallen.

"I see that thou hast been arranging thy little cell again,"--said Márfa Timoféevna, and bent low over a pot containing a young rose-bush:--"what a splendid perfume it has!"

Liza gazed thoughtfully at her aunt.

"What a word you have uttered!"--she whispered.

"What sort of a word, what word?"--interposed the old woman, vivaciously;--"what dost thou mean?--This is dreadful,"--she said, suddenly tearing off her cap, and seating herself on Liza's bed:--"this is beyond my strength! today is the fourth day that I seem to be seething in a kettle; I can no longer pretend that I notice nothing,--I cannot see thee growing pale, withering away, weeping,--I cannot, I cannot!"

"Why, what is the matter with you, aunty?"--said Liza:--"I am all right...."

"All right?"--exclaimed Márfa Timoféevna:--"tell that to others, but not to me! All right! But who was it that was on her knees just now? whose eyelashes are still wet with tears? All right! Why, look at thyself, what hast thou done to thy face, what has become of thine eyes?--All right! As though I did not know all!"

"It will pass off, aunty; give me time."