articulated quickly, and again fell to bowing to the earth. 'What could replace the consolations of the Church to them?' thought Lavretsky; and he tried! himself to pray, but his heart was hard and heavy, and his thoughts were far away. He kept expecting Lisa, but Lisa did not come. The church began to be full of people; but still she was not there. The service commenced, the deacon had already read the gospel, they began ringing for the last prayer; Lavretsky moved a little forward—and suddenly caught sight of Lisa. She had com before him, but he had not seen her; she was hidden in a recess between the wall and the choir, and neither moved nor looked round. Lavretsky did not take his eyes off he till the very end of the service; he was saying farewell to her. The people began to disperse, but she still remained; it seemed as though she were waiting for Lavretsky to go out. At last she crossed herself for the last time and went out—there was only a maid with her—not turning round. Lavretsky went out of the church after her and overtook her in the street; she was walking very quickly, with downcast head, and a veil over her face.
'Good-morning, Lisaveta Mihalovna,' he said aloud with assumed carelessness: 'may I accompany you?'
She made no reply; he walked beside her.
'Are you content with me?' he asked her, dropping his voice. 'Have you heard what happened yesterday?'
'Yes, yes,' she replied in a whisper, 'that was well.' And she went still more quickly.
'Are you content?'
Lisa only bent her head in assent.
'Fedor Ivanitch,' she began in a calm but faint voice, 'I wanted to beg you not to come to see us any more; go away as soon as possible, we may see each other again later—sometime—in a year. But now, do this for my sake; fulfil my request, for God's sake.'
'I am ready to obey you in everything, Lisaveta Mihalovna; but are we really to part like this? will you not say one word to me?'
'Fedor Ivanitch, you are walking near me now.... But already you are so far from me. And not only you, but —'
'Speak out, I entreat you!' cried Lavretsky, 'what do you mean?'
'You will hear perhaps... but whatever it may be, forget... no, do not forget; remember me.'
'Me forget you—'
'That's enough, good-bye. Do not come after me.'
'Lisa!' Lavretsky was beginning.
'Good-bye, good-bye!' she repeated, pulling her veil still lower and almost running forward. Lavretsky looked after her, and with bowed head, turned back along the street. He stumbled up against Lemm, who was also walking along with his eyes on the ground, and his hat pulled down to his nose.
They looked at one another without speaking.
'Well, what have you to say?' Lavretsky brought out at last.
'What have I to say?' returned Lemm, grimly. 'I have nothing to say. All is dead, and we are dead (Alles ist todt, und wir sind todt). So you're going to the right, are you?'
'Yes.'
'And I go to the left. Good-bye.'
The following morning Fedor Ivanitch set off with his wife for Lavriky. She drove in front in the carriage with Ada and Justine; he behind, in the coach. The pretty little girl did not move away from the window the whole journey; she was astonished at everything; the peasants, the women, the wells, the yokes over the horses' heads, the bells and the flocks of crows. Justine shared her wonder. Varvara Pavlovna laughed at their remarks and exclamations. She was in excellent spirits; before leaving town, she had come to an explanation with her husband.
'I understand your position,' she said to him, and from the look in her subtle eyes, he was able to infer that she understood his position fully, 'but you must do me, at least, this justice, that I am easy to live with; I will not fetter you or hinder you; I wanted to secure Ada's future, I want nothing more.'
'Well, you have obtained your object,' observed Fedor Ivanitch.
'I only dream of one thing now: to hide myself for ever in obscurity. I shall remember your goodness always.'
'Enough of that,' he interrupted.
'And I shall know how to respect your independence and tranquillity,' she went on, completing the phrases she had prepared.
Lavretsky made her a low bow.
Varvara Pavlovna then believed her husband was thanking her in his heart.
On the evening of the next day they reached Lavriky; a week later, Lavretsky set off for Moscow, leaving his wife five thousand roubles for her household expenses; and the day after Lavretsky's departure, Panshin made his appearance. Varvara Pavlovna had begged him not to forget her in her solitude. She gave him the best possible reception, and, till a late hour of the night, the lofty apartments of the house and even the garden re-echoed with the sound of music, singing, and lively French talk. For three days Varvara Pavlovna entertained Panshin; when he took leave of her, warmly pressing her lovely hands, he promised to come back very soon—and he kept his word.
Chapter XLV
Lisa had a room to herself on the second story of her mother's house, a clean bright little room with a little white bed, with pots of flowers in the corners and before the windows, a small writing-table, a book-stand, and a crucifix on the wall. It was always called the nursery; Lisa had been born in it. When she returned from the church where she had seen Lavretsky she set everything in her room in order more carefully than usual, dusted it everywhere, looked through and tied up with ribbon all her copybooks, and the letters of her girl-friends, shut up all the drawers, watered the flowers and caressed every blossom with her hand. All this she did without haste, noiselessly, with a kind of rapt and gentle solicitude on her face. She topped at last in the middle of the room, slowly looked around, and going up to the table above which the crucifix was hanging, she fell on her knees, dropped her head on to her clasped hands and remained motionless.
Marfa Timofyevna came in and found her in this position. Lisa did not observe her entrance. The old lady stepped out on tip-toe and coughed loudly several times outside the door. Lisa rose quickly and wiped her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears.
'Ah! I see, you have been setting your cell to rights again,' observed Marfa Timofyevna, and she bent low over a young rose-tree in a pot; 'how nice it smells!'
Lisa looked thoughtfully at her aunt.
'How strange you should use that word!' she murmured.
'What word, eh?' the old lady returned quickly. 'What do you mean? This is horrible,' she began, suddenly flinging off her cap and sitting down on Lisa's little bed; 'it is more than I can bear! this is the fourth day now that I have been boiling over inside; I can't pretend not to notice any longer; I can't see you getting pale, and fading away, and weeping, I can't I can't!'
'Why, what is the matter, auntie?' said Lisa, 'it's nothing.'
'Nothing!' cried Marfa Timofyevna; 'you may tell that to others but not to me. Nothing, who was on her knees just to this minute? and whose eyelashes are still wet with tears? Nothing, indeed! why, look at yourself, what have you done with your face, what has become of your eyes?—Nothing! do you suppose I don't know all?'
'It will pass off, auntie; give me time.'
'It will pass of, but when? Good God! Merciful Saviour! can you have loved him like this? why, he's an old man, Lisa, darling. There, I don't dispute he's a good fellow, no harm in him; but what of that? we are all good
