“Let me look for it,” said Lisa.
“Sit down, sit down; I have still the use of my legs. It must be inside in my bedroom.”
And flinging a sidelong glance in Lavretsky’s direction, Marfa Timofyevna went out. She left the door open; but suddenly she came back to it and shut it.
Lisa leant back against her chair and quietly covered her face with her hands; Lavretsky remained where he was.
“This is how we were to meet again!” he brought out at last.
Lisa took her hands from her face.
“Yes,” she said faintly: “we were quickly punished.”
“Punished,” said Lavretsky. … “What had you done to be punished?”
Lisa raised her eyes to him. There was neither sorrow or disquiet expressed in them; they seemed smaller and dimmer. Her face was pale; and pale too her slightly parted lips.
Lavretsky’s heart shuddered for pity and love.
“You wrote to me; all is over,” he whispered, “yes, all is over—before it had begun.”
“We must forget all that,” Lisa brought out; “I am glad that you have come; I wanted to write to you, but it is better so. Only we must take advantage quickly of these minutes. It is left for both of us to do our duty. You, Fedor Ivanitch, must be reconciled with your wife.”
“Lisa!”
“I beg you to do so; by that alone can we expiate … all that has happened. You will think about it—and will not refuse me.”
“Lisa, for God’s sake—you are asking what is impossible. I am ready to do everything you tell me; but to be reconciled to her now! … I consent to everything, I have forgotten everything; but I cannot force my heart. … Indeed, this is cruel!”
“I do not even ask of you … what you say; do not live with her, if you cannot; but be reconciled,” replied Lisa and again she hid her eyes in her hand.—“remember your little girl; do it for my sake.”
“Very well,” Lavretsky muttered between his teeth: “I will do that, I suppose in that I shall fulfill my duty. But you—what does your duty consist in?”
“That I know myself.”
Lavretsky started suddenly.
“You cannot be making up your mind to marry Panshin?” he said.
Lisa gave an almost imperceptible smile.
“Oh, no!” she said.
“Ah, Lisa, Lisa!” cried Lavretsky, “how happy you might have been!”
Lisa looked at him again.
“Now you see yourself, Fedor Ivanitch, that happiness does not depend on us, but on God.”
“Yes, because you—”
The door from the adjoining room opened quickly and Marfa Timofyevna came in with her cap in her hand.
“I have found it at last,” she said, standing between Lavretsky and Lisa; “I had laid it down myself. That’s what age does for one, alack—though youth’s not much better.”
“Well, and are you going to Lavriky yourself with your wife?” she added, turning to Lavretsky.
“To Lavriky with her? I don’t know,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.
“You are not going downstairs.”
“Today—no, I’m not.”
“Well, well, you know best; but you, Lisa, I think, ought to go down. Ah, merciful powers, I have forgotten to feed my bullfinch. There, stop a minute, I’ll soon—” And Marfa Timofyevna ran off without putting on her cap.
Lavretsky walked quickly up to Lisa.
“Lisa,” he began in a voice of entreaty, “we are parting forever, my heart is torn—give me your hand at parting.”
Lisa raised her head, her wearied eyes, their light almost extinct, rested upon him. … “No,” she uttered, and she drew back the hand she was holding out. “No, Lavretsky (it was the first time she had used this name), I will not give you my hand. What is the good? Go away, I beseech you. You know I love you … yes, I love you,” she added with an effort; “but no … no.”
She pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
“Give me, at least, that handkerchief.”
The door creaked … the handkerchief slid on to Lisa’s lap. Lavretsky snatched it before it had time to fall to the floor, thrust it quickly into a side pocket, and turning round met Marfa Timofyevna’s eyes.
“Lisa, darling, I fancy your mother is calling you,” the old lady declared.
Lisa at once got up and went away.
Marfa Timofyevna sat down again in her corner. Lavretsky began to take leave of her.
“Fedor,” she said suddenly.
“What is it?”
“Are you an honest man?”
“What?”
“I ask you, are you an honest man?”
“I hope so.”
“H’m. But give me your word of honour that you will be an honest man.”
“Certainly. But why?”
“I know why. And you too, my dear friend, if you think well, you’re no fool—will understand why I ask it of you. And now, goodbye, my dear. Thanks for your visit; and remember you have given your word, Fedya, and kiss me. Oh, my dear, it’s hard for you, I know; but there, it’s not easy for anyone. Once I used to envy the flies; I thought it’s for them it’s good to be alive but one night I heard a fly complaining in a spider’s web—no, I think, they too have their troubles. There’s no help, Fedya; but remember your promise all the same. Goodbye.”
Lavretsky went down the back staircase, and had reached the gates when a manservant overtook him.
“Marya Dmitrievna told me to ask you to go in to her,” he commenced to Lavretsky.
“Tell her, my boy, that just now I can’t—” Fedor Ivanitch was beginning.
“Her excellency told me to ask you very particularly,” continued the servant. “She gave orders to say she was at home.”
“Have the visitors gone?” asked Lavretsky.
“Certainly, sir,” replied the servant with a grin.
Lavretsky shrugged his shoulders and followed him.
XLIII
Marya Dmitrievna was sitting alone in her boudoir in an easy-chair, sniffing eau de cologne; a glass of orange-flower-water was standing on a little table near her. She was agitated and seemed nervous.
Lavretsky came in.
“You wanted to see me,” he said, bowing coldly.
“Yes,” replied Marya Dmitrievna, and she sipped a little water: “I heard that you had gone straight up to my aunt; I gave orders that
