As he was walking in the garden one day, Groholsky heard two voices in conversation. One voice was a man’s, the other was a woman’s. One belonged to Bugrov, the other to Liza. Groholsky listened, and turning white as death, turned softly towards the speakers. He halted behind a lilac bush, and proceeded to watch and listen. His arms and legs turned cold. A cold sweat came out upon his brow. He clutched several branches of the lilac that he might not stagger and fall down. All was over!
Bugrov had his arm round Liza’s waist, and was saying to her:
“My darling! what are we to do? It seems it was God’s will. … I am a scoundrel. … I sold you. I was seduced by that Herod’s money, plague take him, and what good have I had from the money? Nothing but anxiety and display! No peace, no happiness, no position. … One sits like a fat invalid at the same spot, and never a step forwarder. … Have you heard that Andrushka Markuzin has been made a head clerk? Andrushka, that fool! While I stagnate. … Good heavens! I have lost you, I have lost my happiness. I am a scoundrel, a blackguard, how do you think I shall feel at the dread day of judgment?”
“Let us go away, Vanya,” wailed Liza. “I am dull. … I am dying of depression.”
“We cannot, the money has been taken. …”
“Well, give it back again.”
“I should be glad to, but … wait a minute. I have spent it all. We must submit, my girl. God is chastising us. Me for my covetousness and you for your frivolity. Well, let us be tortured. … It will be the better for us in the next world.”
And in an access of religious feeling, Bugrov turned up his eyes to heaven.
“But I cannot go on living here; I am miserable.”
“Well, there is no help for it. I’m miserable too. Do you suppose I am happy without you? I am pining and wasting away! And my chest has begun to be bad! … You are my lawful wife, flesh of my flesh … one flesh. … You must live and bear it! While I … will drive over … visit you.”
And bending down to Liza, Bugrov whispered, loudly enough, however, to be heard several yards away:
“I will come to you at night, Lizanka. … Don’t worry. … I am staying at Feodosia close by. … I will live here near you till I have run through everything … and I soon shall be at my last farthing! A-a-ah, what a life it is! Dreariness, ill … my chest is bad, and my stomach is bad.”
Bugrov ceased speaking, and then it was Liza’s turn. … My God, the cruelty of that woman! She began weeping, complaining, enumerating all the defects of her lover and her own sufferings. Groholsky as he listened to her, felt that he was a villain, a miscreant, a murderer.
“He makes me miserable. …” Liza said in conclusion.
After kissing Liza at parting, and going out at the garden gate, Bugrov came upon Groholsky, who was standing at the gate waiting for him.
“Ivan Petrovitch,” said Groholsky in the tone of a dying man, “I have seen and heard it all … It’s not honourable on your part, but I do not blame you. … You love her too, but you must understand that she is mine. Mine! I cannot live without her! How is it you don’t understand that? Granted that you love her, that you are miserable. … Have I not paid you, in part at least, for your sufferings? For God’s sake, go away! For God’s sake, go away! Go away from here forever, I implore you, or you will kill me. …”
“I have nowhere to go,” Bugrov said thickly.
“H’m, you have squandered everything. … You are an impulsive man. Very well. … Go to my estate in the province of Tchernigov. If you like I will make you a present of the property. It’s a small estate, but a good one. … On my honour, it’s a good one!”
Bugrov gave a broad grin. He suddenly felt himself in the seventh heaven.
“I will give it you. … This very day I will write to my steward and send him an authorisation for completing the purchase. You must tell everyone you have bought it. … Go away, I entreat you.”
“Very good, I will go. I understand.”
“Let us go to a notary … at once,” said Groholsky, greatly cheered, and he went to order the carriage.
On the following evening, when Liza was sitting on the garden seat where her rendezvous with Ivan Petrovitch usually took place, Groholsky went quietly to her. He sat down beside her, and took her hand.
“Are you dull, Lizotchka?” he said, after a brief silence. “Are you depressed? Why shouldn’t we go away somewhere? Why is it we always stay at home? We want to go about, to enjoy ourselves, to make acquaintances. … Don’t we?”
“I want nothing,” said Liza, and turned her pale, thin face towards the path by which Bugrov used to come to her.
Groholsky pondered. He knew who it was she expected, who it was she wanted.
“Let us go home, Liza,” he said, “it is damp here. …”
“You go; I’ll come directly.”
Groholsky pondered again.
“You are expecting him?” he asked, and made a wry face as though his heart had been gripped with red-hot pincers.
“Yes. … I want to give him the socks for Misha. …”
“He will not come.”
“How do you know?”
“He has gone away. …”
Liza opened her eyes wide. …
“He has gone away, gone to the Tchernigov province. I have given him my estate. …”
Liza turned fearfully pale, and caught at Groholsky’s shoulder to save herself from falling.
“I saw him off at the steamer at three o’clock.”
Liza suddenly clutched at her head, made a movement, and falling on the seat, began shaking all over.
“Vanya,” she wailed, “Vanya! I will go to Vanya. … Darling!”
She had a fit of hysterics. …
And from that evening, right up to July, two shadows could be seen in the park in which the summer visitors took their walks. The shadows
