A House of Gentlefolk

that was melodious even in a whisper, as it spoke of simple, good things, he did not even notice that he had gone more than halfway. He did not want to wake Marya Dmitrievna, he lightly pressed Lisa’s hand and said, “I think we are friends now, aren’t we?” She nodded, he stopped his horse, and the coach rolled away, lightly swaying and oscillating up and down; Lavretsky turned homeward at a walking pace. The witchery of the summer night enfolded him; all around him seemed suddenly so strange⁠—and at the same time so long known; so sweetly familiar. Everywhere near and afar⁠—and one could see in to the far distance, though the eye could not make out clearly much of what was seen⁠—all was at peace; youthful, blossoming life seemed expressed in this deep peace. Lavretsky’s horse stepped out bravely, swaying evenly to right and left; its great black shadow moved along beside it. There was something strangely sweet in the tramp of its hoofs, a strange charm in the ringing cry of the quails. The stars were lost in a bright mist; the moon, not yet at the full, shone with steady brilliance; its light was shot in an azure stream over the sky, and fell in patches of smoky gold on the thin clouds as they drifted near. The freshness of the air drew a slight moisture into the eyes, sweetly folded all the limbs, and flowed freely into the lungs. Lavretsky rejoiced in it, and was glad at his own rejoicing. “Come, we are still alive,” he thought; “we have not been altogether destroyed by”⁠—he did not say⁠—by whom or by what. Then he fell to thinking of Lisa, that she could hardly love Panshin, that if he had met her under different circumstances⁠—God knows what might have come of it; that he understood Lemm, though Lisa had no words of “her own;” but that, he thought, was not true; she had words of her own. “Don’t speak light of that,” came back to Lavretsky’s mind. He rode a long way with his head bent in thought, then drawing himself up, he slowly repeated aloud:

“And I have burnt all I adored,
And now I adore all that I burnt.”

Then he gave his horse a switch with the whip, and galloped all the way home.

Dismounting from his horse, he looked round for the last time with an involuntary smile of gratitude. Night, still, kindly night stretched over hills and valleys; from afar, out of its fragrant depths⁠—God knows whence⁠—whether from the heavens or the earth⁠—rose a soft, gentle warmth. Lavretsky sent a last greeting to Lisa, and ran up the steps.

The next day passed rather dully. Rain was falling from early morning; Lemm wore a scowl, and kept more and more tightly compressing his lips, as though he had taken an oath never to open them again. When he went to his room, Lavretsky took up to bed with him a whole bundle of French newspapers, which had been lying for more than fortnight on his table unopened. He began indifferently to tear open the wrappings, and glanced hastily over the columns of the newspapers⁠—in which, however, there was nothing new. He was just about to throw them down⁠—and all at once he leaped out of bed as if he had been stung. In an article in one of the papers, M. Jules, with whom we are already familiar, communicated to his readers a “mournful intelligence, that charming, fascinating Moscow lady,” he wrote, “one of the queens of fashion, who adorned Parisian salons, Madame de Lavretsky, had died almost suddenly, and this intelligence, unhappily only too well-founded, had only just reached him, M. Jules. He was,” so he continued, “he might say a friend of the deceased.”

Lavretsky dressed, went out into the garden, and till morning he walked up and down the same path.

XXVIII

The next morning, over their tea, Lemm asked Lavretsky to let him have the horses to return to town. “It’s time for me to set to work, that is, to my lessons,” observed the old man. “Besides, I am only wasting time here.” Lavretsky did not reply at once; he seemed abstracted. “Very good,” he said at last; “I will come with you myself.” Unaided by the servants, Lemm, groaning and wrathful, packed his small box and tore up and burnt a few sheets of music-paper. The horses were harnessed. As he came out of his own room, Lavretsky put the paper he had read last night in his pocket. During the whole course of the journey both Lemm and Lavretsky spoke little to one another; each was occupied with his own thoughts, and each was glad not to be disturbed by the other; and they parted rather coolly; which is often the way, however, with friends in Russia. Lavretsky conducted the old man to his little house; the latter got out, took his trunk and without holding out his hand to his friend (he was holding his trunk in both arms before his breast), without even looking at him, he said to him in Russian, “goodbye!” “Goodbye,” repeated Lavretsky, and bade the coachman drive to his lodging. He had taken rooms in the town of O⁠⸺⁠ ⁠… After writing a few letters and hastily dining, Lavretsky went to the Kalitins’. In their drawing-room he found only Panshin, who informed him that Marya Dmitrievna would be in directly, and at once, with charming cordiality, entered into conversation with him. Until that day, Panshin had always treated Lavretsky, not exactly haughtily, but at least condescendingly; but Lisa, in describing her expedition of the previous day to Panshin, had spoken of Lavretsky as an excellent and clever man, that was enough; he felt bound to make a conquest of an “excellent man.” Panshin began with compliments to Lavretsky, with a description of the rapture in which, according to him, the whole family of Marya Dmitrievna spoke of Vassilyevskoe; and then, according