Part 41

"And Márfa Timoféevna,"--said Schúrotchka.

"And Nastásya Kárpovna,"--rejoined Lyénotchka.--"And M'sieu Lemm...."

"What? And is Lemm dead also?"--asked Lavrétzky.

"Yes,"--replied young Kalítin:--"he went away from here to Odessa--they say that some one decoyed him thither; and there he died."

"You do not know--whether he left any music behind him?"

"I don't know,--it is hardly probable."

All fell silent, and exchanged glances. A cloud of sadness had descended upon all the young faces.

"And Matróska is alive,"--suddenly remarked Lyénotchka.

"And Gedeónovsky is alive,"--added her brother.

At the name of Gedeónovsky a vigorous peal of laughter rang out in unison.

"Yes, he is alive, and lies just as he always did,"--went on Márya Dmítrievna's son:--"and just imagine, that naughty child there" (and he pointed at his wife's sister, the Institute-girl) "put pepper in his snuff-box yesterday."

"How he did sneeze!" exclaimed Lyénotehka:--and again a peal of irrepressible laughter rang out.

"We received news of Liza recently,"--said young Kalítin,--and again everything grew still round about:--"things are well with her,--her health is now improving somewhat."

"Is she still in the same convent?"--asked Lavrétzky, not without an effort.

"Yes, still in the same place."

"Does she write to you?"

"No, never; the news reaches us through other people."--A sudden, profound silence ensued. "The angel of silence has flown past," all said to themselves.

"Would not you like to go into the garden?"--Kalítin turned to Lavrétzky:--"it is very pretty now, although we have rather neglected it."

Lavrétzky went out into the garden, and the first thing that struck his eyes was the bench on which he had once spent with Liza a few happy moments, never to be repeated; it had grown black and crooked; but he recognised it, and his soul was seized by that feeling which has no peer in sweetness and in sorrow,--the feeling of living grief for vanished youth, for happiness which it once possessed. In company with the young people, he strolled through the alleys: the linden-trees had not grown much older and taller during the last eight years, but their shade had become more dense; on the other hand, all the shrubs had sprung upward, the raspberry-bushes had waxed strong, the hazel copse had become entirely impenetrable, and everywhere there was an odour of thickets, forest, grass, and lilacs.

"What a good place this would be to play at puss-in-the-corner,"--suddenly cried Lyénotchka, as they entered a small, verdant glade, hemmed in by lindens:--"by the way, there are five of us."

"And hast thou forgotten Feódor Ivánitch?"--her brother observed to her.... "Or art thou not reckoning in thyself?"

Lyénotchka blushed faintly.

"But is it possible that Feódor Ivánitch, at his age, can..."--she began.

"Please play,"--interposed Lavrétzky, hastily:--"pay no heed to me. It will be all the more agreeable to me if I know that I am not embarrassing you. And there is no need for you to bother about me; we old fellows have occupations of which you, as yet, know nothing, and which no diversion can replace: memories."

The young people listened to Lavrétzky with courteous and almost mocking respect,--exactly as though their teacher were reading them a lesson,--and suddenly all of them flew away from him, and ran over the glade; four of them took up their stand near the trees, one stood in the centre,--and the fun began.

But Lavrétzky returned to the house, went into the dining-room, approached the piano, and touched one of the keys: a faint, but pure sound rang out, and secretly trembled in his heart: with that note began that inspired melody wherewith, long ago, on that same blissful night, Lemm, the dead Lemm, had led him to such raptures. Then Lavrétzky passed into the drawing-room, and did not emerge from it for a long time: in that room, where he had so often seen Liza, her image rose up before him more vividly than ever; it seemed to him, that he felt around him the traces of her presence; but his grief for her was exhausting and not light: there was in it none of the tranquillity which death inspires. Liza was still living somewhere, dully, far away; he thought of her as among the living, but did not recognise the young girl whom he had once loved in that pale spectre swathed in the conventual garment, surrounded by smoky clouds of incense. Lavrétzky would not have recognised himself, had he been able to contemplate himself as he mentally contemplated Liza. In the course of those eight years the crisis had, at last, been effected in his life; that crisis which many do not experience, but without which it is not possible to remain an honourable man to the end: he had really ceased to think of his own happiness, of selfish aims. He had calmed down, and--why should the truth be concealed?--he had aged, not alone in face and body, he had aged in soul; to preserve the heart youthful to old age, as some say, is difficult, and almost absurd: he may feel content who has not lost faith in good, steadfastness of will, desire for activity.... Lavrétzky had a right to feel satisfied: he had become a really fine agriculturist, he had really learned to till the soil, and he had toiled not for himself alone; in so far as he had been able, he had freed from care and established on a firm foundation the existence of his serfs.

Lavrétzky emerged from the house into the garden: he seated himself on the familiar bench--and in that dear spot, in the face of the house, where he had, on the last occasion, stretched out his hands in vain to the fatal cup in which seethes and sparkles the wine of delight,--he, a solitary, homeless wanderer,--to the sounds of the merry cries of the younger generation which had already superseded him,--took a survey of his life. His heart was sad, but not heavy and not very sorrowful: he had nothing which he had need to regret or be ashamed of. "Play on, make merry, grow on, young forces,"--he thought, and there was no bitterness in his meditations:--"life lies before you, and it will be easier for you to live: you will not be compelled, as we have been, to seek your road, to struggle, to fall, and to rise to your feet again amid the gloom; we have given ourselves great trouble, that we might remain whole,--and how many of us have failed in that!--but you must do deeds, work,--and the blessing of old fellows like me be upon you. But all that remains for me, after to-day, after these emotions, is to make my final reverence to you, and, although with sadness, yet without envy, without any dark feelings, to say, in view of the end, in view of God who is awaiting me: 'Long live solitary old age! Burn thyself out, useless life!'"

Lavrétzky rose softly, and softly went away; no one noticed him, no one detained him; the merry cries resounded more loudly than ever in the garden behind the green, dense wall of lofty lindens. He seated himself in his tarantás, and ordered the coachman to drive home, and not to press the horses hard.