A House of Gentlefolk

Chapter XX

The next day Lavretsky got up rather early, had a talk with the village bailiff, visited the threshing-floor, ordered the chain to be taken off the yard dog, who only barked a little but did not even come out of his kennel, and returning home, sank into a kind of peaceful torpor, which he did not shake off the whole day.

"Here I am at the very bottom of the river," he said to himself more than once. He sat at the window without stirring, and, as it were, listened to the current of the quiet life surrounding him, to the few sounds of the country solitude. Something from behind the nettles chirps with a shrill, shrill little note; a gnat seems to answer it. Now it has ceased, but still the gnat keeps up its sharp whirr; across the pleasant, persistent, fretful buzz of the flies sounds the hum of a big bee, constantly knocking its head against the ceiling; a cock crows in the street, hoarsely prolonging the last note; there is the rattle of a cart; in the village a gate is creaking. Then the jarring voice of a peasant woman, "What?" "Hey, you are my little sweetheart," cries Anton to the little two-year-old girl he is dandling in his arms. "Fetch the kvas," repeats the same woman's voice, and all at once there follows a deathly silence; nothing rattles, nothing is moving; the wind is not stirring a leaf; without a sound the swallows fly one after another over the earth, and sadness weights on the heart from their noiseless flight. "Here I am at the very bottom of the river," thought Lavretsky again. "And always, at all times life here is quiet, unhasting," he thought; "whoever comes within its circle must submit; here there is nothing to agitate, nothing to harass; one can only get on here by making one's way slowly, as the ploughman cuts the furrow with his plough. And what vigour, what health abound in this inactive place! Here under the window the sturdy burdock creeps out of the thick grass; above it the lovage trails its juicy stalks and the Virgin's tears fling still higher their pink tendrils; and yonder further in the fields is the silky rye, and the oats are already in ear, and every leaf on every tree, every grass on its stalk is spread to its fullest width. In the love of a woman my best years have gone by," Lavretsky went on thinking, "let me be sobered by the sameness of life here, let me be soothed and made ready, so that I may learn to do my duty without haste." And again he fell to listening to the silence, expecting nothing—and at the same time constantly expecting something; the silence enfolded him on all sides, the sun moved calmly in the peaceful blue sky, and the clouds sailed calmly across it; they seemed to know why and whither they were sailing. At this same time in other places on the earth there is the seething, the bustle, the clash of life; life here slipped by noiseless, as water over marshy grass; and even till evening Lavretsky could not tear himself from the contemplation of this life as it passed and glided by; sorrow for the past was melting in his soul like snow in spring, and strange to say, never had the feeling of home been so deep and strong within him.

Chapter XXI

In the course of a fortnight, Fedor Ivanitch had brought Glafira Petrovna's little house into order and had cleared the court-yard and the garden. From Lavriky comfortable furniture was sent him; from the town, wine, books, and papers; horses made their appearance in the stable; in brief Fedor Ivanitch provided himself with everything necessary and began to live—not precisely after the manner of a country landowner, nor precisely after the manner of a hermit. His days passed monotonously; but he was not bored though he saw no one; he set diligently and attentively to work at farming his estate, rode about the neighbourhood and did some reading. He read little, however; he found it pleasanter to listen to the tales of old Anton. Lavretsky usually sat at the window with a pipe and a cup of cold tea. Anton stood at the door, his hands crossed behind him, and began upon his slow, deliberate stories of old times, of those fabulous times when oats and rye were not sold by measure, but in great sacks, at two or three farthings a sack; when there were impassable forests, virgin steppes stretching on every side, even close to the town. "And now," complained the old man, whose eightieth year had passed, "there has been so much clearing, so much ploughing everywhere, there's nowhere you may drive now." Anton used to tell many stories, too, of his mistress, Glafira Petrovna; how prudent and saving she was; how a certain gentleman, a young neighbour, had paid her court, and used to ride over to see her, and how she was even pleased to put on her best cap, with ribbons of salmon colour, and her yellow gown of tru-tru levantine for him; but how, later on, she had been angry with the gentleman neighbour for his unseemly inquiry, "What, madam, pray, might be your fortune?" and had bade them refuse him the house; and how it was then that she had given directions that, after her decease, everything to the last rag should pass to Fedor Ivanitch. And, indeed, Lavretsky found all his aunt's household goods intact, not excepting the best cap with ribbons of salmon colour, and the yellow gown of tru-tru levantine. Of old papers and interesting documents, upon which Lavretsky had reckoned, there seemed no trace, except one old book, in which his grandfather, Piotr Andreitch, had inscribed in one place, "Celebration in the city of Saint Petersburg of the peace, concluded with the Turkish empire by his Excellency Prince Alexander Alexandrovitch Prozorovsky;" in another place a recipe for a pectoral decoction with the comment, "This recipe was given to the general's lady, Prascovya Federovna Soltikov, by the chief priest of the Church of the Life-giving Trinity, Fedor Avksentyevitch:" in another, a piece of political news of this kind: "Somewhat less talk of the French tigers;" and next this entry: "In the Moscow Gazette an announcement of the death of Mr. Senior-Major Mihal Petrovitch Kolitchev. Is not this the son of Piotr Vassilyevitch Kolitchev? Lavretsky found also some old calendars and dream-books, and the mysterious work of Ambodik; many were the memories stirred by the well-known; but long-forgotten Symbols and Emblems. In Glafira Petrovna's little dressing-table, Lavretsky found a small packet, tied up with black ribbon, sealed with black sealing wax, and thrust away in the very farthest corner of the drawer. In the parcel there lay face to face a portrait, in pastel, of his father in his youth, with effeminate curls straying over his brow, with almond-shaped languid eyes and parted lips, and a portrait, almost effaced, of a pale woman in a white dress with a white rose in her hand—his mother. Of herself, Glafira Petrovna had never allowed a portrait to be taken. "I, myself, little father, Fedor Ivanitch," Anton used to tell Lavretsky, "though I did not then live in the master's house, still I can remember your great-grandfather, Andrey Afanasyevitch, seeing that I had come to my eighteenth year when he died. Once I met him in the garden and my knees! were knocking with fright indeed; however, he did nothing, only asked me my name, and sent me to his room for his pocket-handkerchief. He was a gentleman—how shall I tell you—he didn't look on any one as better than himself. For your great-grandfather had, I do assure you, a magic amulet; a monk from Mount Athos made him a present of this amulet. And he told him, this monk did, "It's for your kindness, Boyar, I give you this; wear it, and you need not fear judgment." Well, but there, little father, we know what those times were like; what the master fancied doing, that he did. Sometimes, if even some gentleman saw fit to cross him in anything, he would just stare at him and say, "You swim in shallow water;" that was his favourite saying. And he lived, your great-grandfather of blessed memory, in a small log-house; and what goods he left behind him, what silver, and stores of all kinds! All the storehouses were full and overflowing. He was a manager. That very decanter, that you were pleased to admire, was his; he used to drink brandy out of it. But there was your grandfather, Piotr Andreitch, built himself a palace of stone, but he never grew rich; everything with him went badly, and he lived worse than his father by far, and he got no pleasure from it for himself, but spent all his money, and now there is nothing to remember him by—not a silver spoon has come down from him, and we have Glafira Petrovna's management to thank for all that is saved.

"But is it true," Lavretsky interrupted him, "they called her the old witch?"

"What sort of people called her so, I should like to know!" replied Anton with an air of displeasure.

"And little father," the old man one day found courage to ask, "what about our mistress, where is she pleased to fix her residence?"

"I am separated from my wife," Lavretsky answered with an effort, "please do not ask questions about her."

"Yes, sir," replied the old man mournfully.

After three weeks had passed by, Lavretsky rode into O——- to the Kalitins, and spent an evening with them. Lemm was there; Lavretsky took a great liking to him. Although thanks to his father, he played no instrument, he was passionately fond of music, real classical music. Panshin was not at the Kalitins' that evening. The governor had sent him off to some place out of the town. Lisa played alone and very correct; Lemm woke up, got excited, twisted a piece of paper into a roll, and conducted. Marya Dmitrievna laughed at first, as she looked at him, later on she went off to bed; in her own words, Beethoven was too agitating for her nerves. At midnight Lavretsky accompanied Lemm to his lodging and stopped there with him till three o'clock in the morning. Lemm talked a great deal; his bent figure grew erect, his eyes opened wide and flashed fire; his hair even stood up on his forehead. It was so long since any one had shown him any sympathy, and Lavretsky was obviously interested in him, he was plying him with sympathetic and attentive questions. This touched the old man; he ended by showing the visitor his music, played and even sang in a faded voice some extracts from his works, among others the whole of Schiller's ballad, Fridolin, set by him to music. Lavretsky admired it, made him repeat some passages, and at parting, invited him to stay a few days with him. Lemm, as he accompanied him as far as the street, agreed at once, and warmly pressed his hand; but when he was left standing alone in the fresh, damp air, in the just dawning sunrise, he looked round him, shuddered, shrank into himself, and crept up to his little room, with a guilty air. "Ich bin wohl nicht klug" (I must be out of my senses), he muttered, as he lay down in his hard short bed. He tried to say that he was ill, a few days later, when Lavretsky drove over to fetch him in an open carriage; but Fedor Ivanitch went up into his room and managed to persuade him. What produced the most powerful effect upon Lemm was the circumstance that Lavretsky had ordered a piano from town to be sent into the country expressly for him.

They set off together to the Kalitins' and spent the evening with them, but not so pleasantly as on the last occasion. Panshin was there, he talked a great deal about his expedition, and very amusingly mimicked and described the country gentry he had seen; Lavretsky laughed, but Lemm would not come out of his corner, and sat silent, slightly tremulous all over like a spider, looking dull and sullen, and he only revived when Lavretsky began to take leave. Even when he was sitting in the carriage, the old man was still shy and constrained; but the warm soft air, the light breeze, and the light shadows, the scent of the grass and the birch-buds, the peaceful light of the starlit, moonless night, the pleasant tramp and snort of the horses—all the witchery of the roadside, the spring and the night, sank into the poor German's soul, and he was himself the first to begin a conversation with Lavretsky.

Chapter XXII

He began talking about music, about Lisa, then of music again. He seemed to enunciate his words more slowly when he spoke of Lisa. Lavretsky turned the conversation on his compositions, and half in jest, offered to write him a libretto.

"H'm, a libretto!" replied Lemm; "no, that is not in my line; I have not now the liveliness, the play of the imagination, which is needed for an opera; I have lost too much of my power... But if I were still able to do something,—I should be content with a song; of course, I should like to have beautiful words..."

He ceased speaking, and sat a long while motionless, his eyes lifted to the heavens.

"For instance," he said at last, "something in this way: 'Ye stars, ye pure stars!'"

Lavretsky turned his face slightly towards him and began to look at him.

"'Ye stars, pure stars,'" repeated Lemm... "'You look down upon the righteous and guilty alike.. but only the pure in heart,'—or something of that kind—'comprehend you'—that is, no—'love you.' But I am not a poet. I'm not equal to it! Something for that kind, though, something lofty."

Lemm pushed his hat on to the back of his head; in the dim twilight of the clear night his face looked paler and younger.

"'And you too,'" he continued, his voice gradually sinking, "'ye know who loves, who can love, because, pure ones, ye alone can comfort'... No, that's not it at all! I am not a poet," he said, "but something of that sort."

"I am sorry I am not a poet," observed Lavretsky.

"Vain dreams!" replied Lemm, and he buried himself in the corner of the carriage. He closed his eyes as though he were disposing himself to sleep.

A few instants passed... Lavretsky listened... "'Stars, pure stars, love,'" muttered the old man.

"Love," Lavretsky repeated to himself. He sank into thought—and his heart grew heavy.

"That is beautiful music you have set to Fridolin, Christopher Fedoritch," he said aloud, "but what do you suppose, did that Fridolin do, after the Count had presented him to his wife... became her lover, eh?"

"You think so," replied Lemm, "probably because experience,"—he stopped suddenly and turned away in confusion. Lavretsky laughed constrainedly, and also turned away and began gazing at the road.

The stars had begun to grow paler and the sky had turned grey when the carriage drove up to the steps of the little house in Vassilyevskoe. Lavretsky conducted his guest to the room prepared for him, returned to his study and sat down before the window. In the garden a nightingale was singing its last song before dawn, Lavretsky remember that a nightingale had sung in the garden at the Kalitins'; he remembered, too, the soft stir in Lisa's eyes, as at its first notes, they turned towards the dark window. He began to think of her, and his heart was calm again. "Pure maiden," he murmured half-aloud: "pure stars," he added with a smile, and went peacefully to bed.

But Lemm sat a long while on his bed, a music-book on his knees. He felt as though sweet, unheard melody was haunting him; already he was all aglow and astir, already he felt the languor and sweetness of its presence.. but he could not reach it.

"Neither poet nor musician!" he muttered at last... And his tired head sank wearily on to the pillows.

Chapter XXIII

The next morning the master of the house and his guest drank tea in the garden under an old time-tree.

"Master!" said Lavretsky among other things, "you will soon have to compose a triumphal cantata."

"On what occasion?"

"For the nuptials of Mr. Panshin and Lisa. Did you notice what attention he paid her yesterday? It seems as though things were in a fair way with them already."

"That will never be!" cried Lemm.

"Why?"

"Because it is impossible. Though, indeed," he added after a short pause, "everything is possible in this world. Especially here among you in Russia."

"We will leave Russia out of the question for a time; but what do you find amiss in this match?"

"Everything is amiss, everything. Lisaveta Mihalovna is a girl of high principles, serious, of lofty feelings, and he... he is a dilettante, in a word."

"But suppose she loves him"

Lemm got up from the bench.

"No, she does not love him, that is to say, she is very pure in heart, and does not know herself what it means... love. Madame von Kalitin tells her that he is a fine young man, and she obeys Madame von Kalitin because she is still quite a child, though she is nineteen; she says her prayers in the morning and in the evening—and that is very well; but she does not love him. She can only love what is beautiful, and he is not, that is, his soul is not beautiful."

Lemm uttered this whole speech coherently, and with fire, walking with little steps to and fro before the tea-table, and running his eyes over the ground.

"Dearest maestro!" cried Lavretsky suddenly, "it strikes me you are in love with cousin yourself."

Lemm stopped short all at once.

"I beg you," he began in an uncertain voice, "do not make fun of me like that. I am not crazy; I look towards the dark grave, not towards a rosy future."

Lavretsky felt sorry for the old man; he begged his pardon. After morning tea, Lemm played him his cantata, and after dinner, at Lavretsky's initiative, there was again talk of Lisa. Lavretsky listened to him with attention and curiosity.

"What do you say, Christopher Fedoritch," he said at last, "you see everything here seems in good order now, and the garden is in full bloom, couldn't we invite her over here for a day with her mother and my old aunt... eh? Would you like it?"

Lemm bent his head over his plate.

"Invite her," he murmured, scarcely audibly.

"But Panshin isn't wanted?"

"No, he isn't wanted," rejoined the old man with an almost child-like smile.

Two days later Fedor Ivanitch set off to the town to see the Kalitins.

Chapter XXIV

He found them all at home, but he did not at once disclose his plan to them; he wanted to discuss it first with Lisa alone. Fortune favoured him; they were left alone in the drawing-room. They had some talk; she had had time by now to grow used to him—and she was not shy as a rule with any one. He listened to her, watched her, and mentally repeated Lemm's words, and agreed with them. It sometimes happens that two people who are acquainted, but not on intimate terms with one another, all of sudden grow rapidly more intimate in a few minutes, and the consciousness of this greater intimacy is at once expressed in their eyes, in their soft and affectionate smiles, and in their very gestures. This was exactly what came to pass with Lavretsky and Lisa. "So he is like that," was her thought, as she turned a friendly glance on him; "so you are like that," he too was thinking. And so he was not very much surprised when she informed him, not without a little faltering, however, that she had long wished to say something to him, but she was afraid of offending him.

"Don't be afraid; tell me," he replied, and stood still before her.

Lisa raised her clear eyes to him.

"You are so good," she began, and at the same time, she thought: "Yes, I am sure he is good"... "you will forgive me, I ought not dare to speak of it to you... but—how could you... why did you separate from your wife?"

Lavretsky shuddered: he looked at Lisa, and sat down near her.

"My child," he began, "I beg you, do not touch upon that wound; your hands are tender, but it will hurt me all the same."

"I know," Lisa went on, as though she did not hear him, "she has been to blame towards you. I don't want to defend her; but what God has joined, how can you put asunder?"

"Our convictions on that subject are too different, Lisaveta Mihalovna," Lavretsky observed, rather sharply; "we cannot understand one another."

Lisa grew paler: her whole frame was trembling slightly; but she was not silenced.

"You must forgive," she murmured softly, "if you wish to be forgiven."

"Forgive!" broke in Lavretsky. "Ought you not first to know whom you are interceding for? Forgive that woman, take her back into my home, that empty, heartless creature! And who told you she wants to return to me? She is perfectly contented with her position, I can assure you... But what a subject to discuss here! Her name ought never to be uttered by you. You are too pure, you are not capable of understanding such a creature.

"Why abuse her?" Lisa articulated with an effort. The trembling of her hands was perceptible now. "You left her yourself, Fedor Ivanitch."

"But I tell you," retorted Lavretsky with an involuntary outburst of impatience, "you don't know what that woman is!"

"Then why did you marry her?" whispered Lisa, and her eyes feel.

Lavretsky got up quickly from his seat.

"Why did I marry her? I was young and inexperienced; I was deceived, I was carried away by a beautiful exterior. I knew no women. I knew nothing. God grant you may make a happier marriage! but let me tell you, you can be sure of nothing."

"I too might be unhappy," said Lisa (her voice had begun to be unsteady), "but then I ought to submit, I don't know how to say it; but if we do not submit"—

Lavretsky clenched his hands and stamped with his foot.

"Don't be angry, forgive me," Lisa faltered hurriedly.

At that instant Marya Dmitrievna came in. Lisa got up and was going away.

"Stop a minute," Lavretsky cried after her unexpectedly. "I have a great favour to beg of your mother and you; to pay me a visit in my new abode. You know, I have had a piano sent over; Lemm is staying with me; the lilac is in flower now; you will get a breath of country air, and you can return the same day—will you consent?" Lisa looked towards her mother; Marya Dmitrievna was assuming an expression of suffering; but Lavretsky did not give her time to open her mouth; he at once kissed both her hands. Marya Dmitrievna, who was always susceptible to demonstrations of feeling, and did not at all anticipate such effusivements from the "dolt," was melted and gave her consent. While she was deliberating which day to fix, Lavretsky went up to Lisa, and, still greatly moved, whispered to her aside: "Thank you, you are a good girl; I was to blame." And her pale face glowed with a bright, shy smile; her eyes smiled too—up to that instant she had been afraid she had offended him.

"Vladimir Nikolaitch can come with us?" inquired Marya Dmitrievna.

"Yes," replied Lavretsky, "but would it not be better to be just a family party?"

"Well, you know, it seems," began Marya Dmitrievna. "But as you please," she added.

It was decided to take Lenotchka and Shurotchka. Marfa Timofyevna refused to join in the expedition.

"It is hard for me, my darling," she said, "to give my old bones a shaking; and to be sure there's nowhere for me to sleep at your place: besides, I can't sleep in a strange bed. Let the young folks go frolicking."

Lavretsky did not succeed in being alone again with Lisa; but he looked at her in such a way that she felt her heart at rest, and a little ashamed, and sorry for him. He pressed her hand warmly at parting; left alone, she fell to musing.

Chapter XXV

When Lavretsky reached home, he was met at the door of the drawing-room by a tall, thin man, in a thread-bare blue coat, with a wrinkled, but lively face, with disheveled grey whiskers, a long straight nose, and small fiery eyes. This was Mihalevitch, who had been his friend at the university. Lavretsky did not at first recognise him, but embraced him warmly directly he told his name.

They had not met since their Moscow days. Torrents of exclamations and questions followed; long-buried recollections were brought to light. Hurriedly smoking pipe after pipe, tossing off tea at a gulp, and gesticulating with his long hands, Mihalevitch related his adventures to Lavretsky; there was nothing very inspiriting in them, he could not boast of success in his undertakings—but he was constantly laughing a hoarse, nervous laugh. A month previously he had received a position in the private counting-house of a spirit-tax contractor, two hundred and fifty miles from the town of O——-, and hearing of Lavretsky returned from abroad he had turned out of his way so as to see his old friend. Mihalevitch and talked as impetuously as in his youth; made as much noise and was as effervescent as of old. Lavretsky was about to acquaint him with his new position, but Mihalevitch interrupted him, muttering hurriedly, "I have heard, my dear fellow, I have heard—who could have anticipated it?" and at once turned the conversation upon general subjects.

"I must set off to-morrow, my dear fellow," he observed; "to-day if you will excuse it, we will sit up late. I want above all to know what you are like, what are your views and convictions, what you have become, what life has taught you." (Mihalevitch still preserved the phraseology of 1830.) "As for me, I have changed in much; the waves of life have broken over my breast—who was it said that?—though in what is important, essential I have not changed; I believe as of old in the good, the true: but I do not only believe—I have faith now, yes, I have faith, faith. Listen, you know I write verses; there is no poetry in them, but there is truth. I will read you aloud my last poem; I have expressed my truest convictions in it. Listen." Mihalevitch fell to reading his poem: it was rather long, and ended with the following lines:

"I gave myself to new feelings with all my heart,

And my soul became as a child's!

And I have burnt all I adored

And now adore all that I burnt."

As he uttered the two last lines, Mihalevitch all but shed tears; a slight spasm—the sign of deep emotion—passed over his wide mouth, his ugly face lighted up. Lavretsky listened, and listened to him—and the spirit of antagonism was aroused in him; he was irritated by the ever-ready enthusiasm of the Moscow student, perpetually at boiling-point. Before a quarter of an hour had elapsed a heated argument had broken out between them, one of these endless arguments, of which only Russians are capable. After a separation of many years spent in two different worlds, with no clear understanding of the other's ideas or even of their own, catching at words and replying only in words, they disputed about the most abstract subjects, and they disputed as though it were a matter of life and death for both: they shouted and vociferated so that every one in the house was startled, and poor Lemm, who had locked himself up in his room directly after Mihalevitch arrived, was bewildered, and began even to feel vaguely alarmed.

"What are you after all? a pessimist?" cried Mihalevitch at one o'clock in the night.

"Are pessimists usually like this?" replied Lavretsky. "They are usually all pale and sickly—would you like me to lift you with one hand?"

"Well, if you are not a pessimist you are a scepteec, that's still worse." Mihalevitch's talk had a strong flavour of his mother-country, Little Russia. "And what right have you to be a scepteec? You have had ill-luck in life, let us admit; that was not your fault; you were born with a passionate loving heart, and you were unnaturally kept out of the society of women: the first woman you came across was bound to deceive you."

"She deceived you too," observed Lavretsky grimly.

"Granted, granted; I was the tool of destiny in it—what nonsense I talk, though—there is no such thing as destiny; it is an old habit of expressing things inexactly. But what does that prove?"

"It proves this, that they distorted me from my childhood."

"Well, it's for you to straighten yourself! What's the good of being a man, a male animal? And however that may be, is it possible, is it permissible, to reduce a personal, so to speak, fact to a general law, to an infallible principle?"

"How a principle?" interrupted Lavretsky; "I don't admit—"

"No, it is your principle, your principle," Mihalevitch interrupted in his turn.

"You are an egoist, that's what it is!" he was thundering an hour later: "you wanted personal happiness, you wanted enjoyment in life, you wanted to live only for yourself."

"What do you mean by personal happiness?"

"And everything deceived you; everything crumbled away under your feet."

"What do you mean by personal happiness, I ask you?"

"And it was bound to crumble away. Either you sought support where it could not be found, or you built your house on shifting sands, or—"

"Speak more plainly, or I can't understand you."

"Or—you may laugh if you like—or you had no faith, no warmth of heart; intellect, nothing but one farthing's worth of intellect... you are simply a pitiful, antiquated Voltairean, that's what you are!"

"I'm a Voltairean?"

"Yes, like your father, and you yourself do not suspect it."

"After that," exclaimed Lavretsky, "I have the right to call you a fanatic."

"Alas!" replied Mihalevitch with a contrite air, "I have not so far deserved such an exalted title, unhappily."

"I have found out now what to call you," cried the same Mihalevitch, at three o'clock in the morning. "You are not a sceptic, nor a pessimist, nor a Voltairean, you are a loafer, and you are a vicious loafer, a conscious loafer, not a simple loafer. Simple loafers lie on the stove and do nothing because they don't know how to do anything; they don't think about anything either, but you are a man of ideas—and yet you lie on the stove; you could do something—and you do nothing; you lie idle with a full stomach and look down from above and say, 'It's best to lie idle like this, because whatever people do, is all rubbish, leading to nothing.'"

"And from what do you infer that I lie idle?" Lavretsky protested stoutly. "Why do you attribute such ideas to me?"

"And, besides that, you are all, all the tribe of you," continued Mihalevitch, "cultivated loafers. You know which leg the German limps on, you know what's amiss with the English and the French, and your pitiful culture goes to make it worse, your shameful idleness, your abominable inactivity is justified by it. Some are even proud of it: 'I'm such a clever fellow,' they say, 'I do nothing, while these fools are in a fuss.' Yes! and there are fine gentlemen among us—though I don't say this as to you—who reduce their whole life to a kind of stupor of boredom, get used to it, live in it, like—like a mushroom in white sauce," Mihalevitch added hastily, and he laughed at his own comparison. "Oh! this stupor of boredom is the ruin of Russians. Ours is the age for work, and the sickening loafer"...

"But what is all this abuse about?" Lavretsky clamoured in his turn. "Work—doing—you'd better say what is to be done, instead of abusing me, Desmosthenes of Poltava!"

"There, what a thing to ask! I can't tell you that brother; that every one ought to know for himself," retorted the Desmosthenes ironically. "A landowner, a nobleman, and not know what to do? You have no faith, or else you would know; no faith—and no intuition."

"Let me at least have time to breathe; you don't let me have time to look round," Lavretsky besought him.

"Not a minute, nor a second!" retorted Mihalevitch with an imperious wave of the hand. "Not one second: death does not delay, and life ought not to delay."

"And what a time, what a place for men to think of loafing!" he cried at four o'clock, in a voice, however, which showed signs of sleepiness; "among us! now! in Russia where every separate individual has a duty resting upon him, a solemn responsibility to God, to the people, to himself. We are sleeping, and the time is slipping away; we are sleeping."....

"Permit me to observe," remarked Lavretsky, "that we are not sleeping at present but rather preventing others from sleeping. We are straining our throats like the cocks—listen! there is one crowing for the third time."

This sally made Mihalevitch laugh, and calmed him down. "Good-bye till to-morrow," he said with a smile, and thrust his pipe into his pouch.

"Till to-morrow," repeated Lavretsky. But the friends talked for more than hour longer. Their voices were no longer raised, however, and their talk was quiet, sad, friendly talk.

Mihalevitch set off the next day, in spite of all Lavretsky's efforts to keep him. Fedor Ivanitch did not succeed in persuading him to remain; but he talked to him to his heart's content. Mihalevitch, it appeared, had not a penny to bless himself with. Lavretsky had noticed with pain the evening before all the tokens and habits of years of poverty; his boots were shabby, a button was off on the back of his coat, on his arrival, he had not even thought of asking to wash, and at supper he ate like a shark, tearing his meat in his fingers, and crunching the bones with his strong black teeth. It appeared, too, that he had made nothing out of his employment, that he now rested all his hopes on the contractor who was taking him solely in order to have an "educated man" in his office.

For all that Mihalevitch was not discouraged, but as idealist or cynic, lived on a crust of bread, sincerely rejoicing or grieving over the destinies of humanity, and his own vocation, and troubling himself very little as to how to escape dying of hunger. Mihalevitch was not married: but had been in love times beyond number, and had written poems to all the objects of his adoration; he sang with especial fervour the praises of a mysterious black-tressed "noble Polish lady." There were rumours, it is true, that this "noble Polish lady" was a simple Jewess, very well known to a good many cavalry officers—but, after all, what do you think—does it really make any difference?

With Lemm, Mihalevitch did not get on; his noisy talk and brusque manners scared the German, who was unused to such behaviour. One poor devil detects another by instinct at once, but in old age he rarely gets on with him, and that is hardly astonishing, he has nothing to share with him, not even hopes.

Before setting off, Mihalevitch had another long discussion with Lavretsky, foretold his ruin, if he did not see the error of his ways, exhorted him to devote himself seriously to the welfare of his peasants, and pointed to himself as an example, saying that he had been purified in the furnace of suffering; and in the same breath called himself several times a happy man, comparing himself with the fowl of the air and the lily of the field.

"A black lily, any way," observed Lavretsky.

"Ah, brother, don't be a snob!" retorted Mihalevitch, good-naturedly, "but thank God rather there is a pure plebeian blood in your veins too. But I see that you want some pure, heavenly creature to draw you out of your apathy."

"Thanks, brother," remarked Lavretsky. "I have had quite enough of those heavenly creatures."

"Silence, ceeneec!" cried Mihalevitch.

"Cynic," Lavretsky corrected him.

"Ceeneec, just so," repeated Mihalevitch unabashed.

Even when he had taken his seat in the carriage, to which his flat, yellow, strangely light trunk was carried, he still talked; muffled in a kind of Spanish cloak with a collar, brown with age, and a clasp of two lion's paws; he went on developing his views on the destiny of Russian, and waving his swarthy hand in the air, as though he were sowing the seeds of her future prosperity. The horses started at last.

"Remember my three last words," he cried, thrusting his whole body out of the carriage and balancing so, "Religion, progress, humanity!... Farewell."

His head, with a foraging cap pulled down over his eyes, disappeared. Lavretsky was left standing alone on the steps, and he gazed steadily into the distance along the road till the carriage disappeared out of sight. "Perhaps he is right, after all," he thought as he went back into the house; "perhaps I am a loafer." Many of Mihalevitch's words had sunk irresistibly into his heart, though he had disputed and disagreed with him. If a man only has a good heart, no one can resist him.

Chapter XXVI

Two days later, Marya Dmitrievna visited Vassilyevskoe according to her promise, with all her young people. The little girls ran at once into the garden, while Marya Dmitrievna languidly walked through the rooms and languidly admired everything. She regarded her visit to Lavretsky as a sign of great condescension, almost as a deed of charity. She smiled graciously when Anton and Apraxya kissed her hand in the old-fashioned house-servants' style; and in a weak voice, speaking through her nose, asked for some tea. To the great vexation of Anton, who had put on knitted white gloves for the purpose, tea was not handed to the grand lady visitor by him, but by Lavretsky's hired valet, who in the old man's words, had not a notion of what was proper. To make up for this, Anton resumed his rights at dinner: he took up a firm position behind Marya Dmitrievna's chair; and he would not surrender his post to any one. The appearance of guests after so long an interval at Vassilyevskoe fluttered and delighted the old man. It was a pleasure to him to see that his master was acquainted with such fine gentlefolk. He was not, however, the only one who was fluttered that day; Lemm, too, was in agitation. He had put on a rather short snuff-coloured coat with a swallow-tail, and tied his neck handkerchief stiffly, and he kept incessantly coughing and making way for people with a cordial and affable air. Lavretsky noticed with pleasure that his relations with Lisa were becoming more intimate; she had held out her hand to him affectionately directly she came in. After dinner Lemm drew out of his coat-tail pocket, into which he had continually been fumbling, a small roll of music-paper and compressing his lips he laid it without speaking on the pianoforte. It was a song composed by him the evening before, to some old-fashioned German words, in which mention was made of the stars. Lisa sat down at once to the piano and played at sight the song.... Alas! the music turned out to be complicated and painfully strained; it was clear that the composer had striven to express something passionate and deep, but nothing had come of it; the effort had remained an effort. Lavretsky and Lisa both felt this, and Lemm understood it. Without uttering a single word, he put his song back into his pocket, and in reply to Lisa's proposal to play it again, he only shook his head and said significantly: "Now—enough!" and shrinking into himself he turned away.

Towards evening the whole party went out to fish. In the pond behind the garden there were plenty of carp and groundlings. Marya Dmitrievna was put in an arm-chair near the banks, in the shade, with a rug under her feet and the best line was given to her. Anton as an old experienced angler offered her his services. He zealously put on the worms, and clapped his hand on them, spat on them and even threw in the line with a graceful forward swing of his whole body. Marya Dmitrievna spoke of him the same day to Fedor Ivanitch in the following phrase, in boarding-school French: "Il n'y a plus maintenant de ces gens comme ca, comme autrefois." Lemm with the two little girls went off further to the dam of the pond; Lavretsky took up his position near Lisa. The fish were continually biting, the carp were constantly flashing in the air with golden and silvery sides as they were drawn in; the cries of pleasure of the little girls were incessant, even Marya Dmitrievna uttered a little feminine shriek on two occasions. The fewest fish were caught by Lavretsky and Lisa; probably this was because they paid less attention than the others to the angling, and allowed their floats to swim back right up to the bank. The high reddish reeds rustled quietly around, the still water shone quietly before them, and quietly too they talked together. Lisa was standing on a small raft; Lavretsky sat on the inclined trunk of a willow; Lisa wore a white gown, tied round the waist with a broad ribbon, also white; her straw hat was hanging on one hand, and in the other with some effort she held up the crooked rod. Lavretsky gazed at her pure, somewhat severe profile, at her hair drawn back behind her ears, at her soft cheeks, which glowed like a little child's, and thought, "Oh, how sweet you are, bending over my pond!" Lisa did not turn to him, but looked at the water, half frowning, to keep the sun out of her eyes, half smiling. The shade of the lime-tree near fell upon both.

"Do you know," began Lavretsky, "I have been thinking over our last conversation a great deal, and have come to the conclusion that you are exceedingly good."

"That was not at all my intention in——-" Lisa was beginning to reply, and she was overcome with embarrassment.

"You are good," repeated Lavretsky. "I am a rough fellow, but I feel that every one must love you. There's Lemm for instance; he is simply in love with you."

Lisa's brows did not exactly frown, they contracted slightly; it always happened with her when she heard something disagreeable to her.

"I was very sorry for him to-day," Lavretsky added, "with his unsuccessful song. To be young and to fail is bearable; but to be old and not be successful is hard to bear. And how mortifying it is to feel that one's forces are deserting one! It is hard for an old man to bear such blows!... Be careful, you have a bite.... They say," added Lavretsky after a short pause, "that Vladimir Nikolaitch has written a very pretty song."

"Yes," replied Lisa, "it is only a trifle, but not bad."

"And what do you think," inquired Lavretsky; "is he a good musician?"

"I think he has great talent for music; but so far he has not worked at it, as he should."

"Ah! And is he a good sort of man?"

Lisa laughed and glanced quickly at Fedor Ivanitch.

"What a queer question!" she exclaimed, drawing up her line and throwing it in again further off.

"Why is it queer? I ask you about him, as one who has only lately come here, as a relation."

"A relation?"

"Yes. I am, it seems, a sort of uncle of yours?"

"Vladimir Nikolaitch has a good heart," said Lisa, "and he is clever; maman likes him very much."

"And do you like him?"

"He is nice; why should I not like him?"

"Ah!" Lavretsky uttered and ceased speaking. A half-mournful, half-ironical expression passed over his face. His steadfast gaze embarrassed Lisa, but he went on smiling.—"Well, God grant them happiness!" he muttered at last, as though to himself, and turned away his head.

Lisa flushed.

"You are mistaken, Fedor Ivanitch," she said: "you are wrong in thinking .... But don't you like Vladimir Nikolaitch?" she asked suddenly.

"No, I don't."

"Why?"

"I think he has no heart."

The smile left Lisa's face.

"It is your habit to judge people severely," she observed after a long silence.

"I don't think it is. What right have I to judge others severely, do you suppose, when I must ask for indulgency myself? Or have you forgotten that I am a laughing stock to everyone, who is not too indifferent even to scoff?... By the way," he added, "did you keep your promise?"

"What promise?"

"Did you pray for me?"

"Yes, I prayed for you, and I pray for you every day. But please do not speak lightly of that."

Lavretsky began to assure Lisa that the idea of doing so had never entered his head, that he had the deepest reverence for every conviction; then he went off into a discourse upon religion, its significance in the history of mankind, the significance of Christianity.

"One must be a Christian," observed Lisa, not without some effort, "not so as to know the divine... and the... earthly, because every man has to die."

Lavretsky raised his eyes in involuntary astonishment upon Lisa and met her gaze.

"What a strange saying you have just uttered!" he said.

"It is not my saying," she replied.

"Not yours.... But what made you speak of death?"

"I don't know. I often think of it."

"Often?"

"Yes."

"One would not suppose so, looking at you now; you have such a bright, happy face, you are smiling."

"Yes, I am very happy just now," replied Lisa simply.

Lavretsky would have liked to seize both her hands, and press them warmly.

"Lisa, Lisa!" cried Marya Dmitrievna, "do come here, and look what a fine carp I have caught."

"In a minute, maman," replied Lisa, and went towards her, but Lavretsky remained sitting on his willow. "I talk to her just as if life were not over for me," he thought. As she went away, Lisa hung her hat on a twig; with strange, almost tender emotion, Lavretsky looked at the hat, and its long rather crumpled ribbons. Lisa soon came back to him, and again took her stand on the platform.

"What makes you think Vladimir Nikolaitch has no heart?" she asked a few minutes later.

"I have told you already that I may be mistaken; time will show, however."

Lisa grew thoughtful. Lavretsky began to tell her about his daily life at Vassilyevskoe, about Mihalevitch, and about Anton; he felt a need to talk to Lisa, to share with her everything that was passing in his heart; she listened so sweetly, so attentively; her few replies and observations seemed to him so simple and so intelligent. He even told her so.

Lisa was surprised.

"Really?" she said; "I thought that I was like my maid, Nastya; I had no words of my own. She said one day to her sweetheart: 'You must be dull with me; you always talk so finely to me, and I have no words of my own.'"

"And thank God for it!" thought Lavretsky.