_ CHAPTER XXXIV
About the middle of the next day Lavretsky went to the Kalitines'. On his way there he met Panshine, 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 analyze 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, passing 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.
"Nothing--nothing!" she cried with animation. "I know that I have no right to demand anything. I am no fool, believe me. I don't hope, I don't dare to hope, for pardon. I only venture to entreat you to tell me what I ought to do, where I ought to live. I will obey your orders like a slave, whatever they may be."
"I have no orders to give," replied Lavretsky in the same tone as before. "You know that all is over between us--and more than ever now. You can live where you like; and if your allowance is too small--"
"Ah, don't say such terrible things!" she said, interrupting him. "Forgive me, if only--if only for the sake of this angel."
And having uttered these words, Varvara Pavlovna suddenly rushed into the other room, and immediately returned with a very tastefully-dressed little girl in her arms. Thick flaxen curls fell about the pretty little rosy face and over the great black, sleepy eyes of the child, who smilingly blinked at the light, and held on to her mother's neck by a chubby little arm.
"_Ada, vois, c'est ton pere_," said Varvara Pavlovna, removing the curls from the child's eyes, and kissing her demonstratively. "_Prie-le avec moi_."
"_C'est la, papa_?" the little girl lispingly began to stammer.
"_Oui, mon enfant, n'est-ce pas que tu l'aimes_?"
But the interview had become intolerable to Lavretsky. ;'
"What melodrama is it just such a scene occurs; in?" he muttered, and left the room.
Varvara Pavlovna remained standing where she was for some time, then she slightly shrugged her shoulders, took the little girl back into the other room, undressed her, and put her to bed. Then she took a book and sat down near the lamp. There she waited about an hour, but at last she went to bed herself.
"_Eh bien, madame_?" asked her maid,--a Frenchwoman whom she had brought with her from Paris,--as she unlaced her stays.
"_Eh bien_, Justine!" replied Varvara Pavlovna. "He has aged a great deal, but I think he is just as good as ever. Give me my gloves for the night, and get the gray dress, the high one, ready for to-morrow morning--and don't forget the mutton cutlets for Ada. To be sure it will be difficult to get them here, but we must try."
"_A la guerre comme a la guerre_!" replied Justine as she put out the light. _