Lavretsky eyed her with a look of hate, feeling hardly
able to abstain from crying brava, hardly able
to abstain from striking her down—and went
away.
An hour later he was already on the road to Vasilievskoe,
and two hours later Varvara Pavlovna ordered the best
carriage on hire in the town to be got for her, put
on a simple straw hat with a black veil, and a modest
mantilla, left Justine in charge of Ada, and went to
the Kalitines’. From the inquiries Justine
had made, Madame Lavretsky had learnt that her husband
was in the habit of going there every day.
The day on which Lavretsky’s wife arrived in
O.—sad day for him—was also
a day of trial for Liza. Before she had had time
to go down-stairs and say good morning to her mother,
the sound of a horse’s hoofs was heard underneath
the window, and, with a secret feeling of alarm, she
saw Panshine ride into the court-yard. “It
is to get a definite answer that he has come so early,”
she thought; and she was not deceived. After
taking a turn through the drawing-room, he proposed
to go into the garden with her; and when there he asked
her how his fate was to be decided.
Liza summoned up her courage, and told him that she
could not be his wife. He listened to all she
had to say, turning himself a little aside, with his
hat pressed down over his eyes. Then, with perfect
politeness, but in an altered tone, he asked her if
that was her final decision, and whether he had not,
in some way or other, been the cause of such a change
in her ideas. Then he covered his eyes with his
hand for a moment, breathed one quick sigh, and took
his hand away from his face.
“I wanted to follow the beaten track,”
he said sadly; “I wanted to choose a companion
for myself according to the dictates of my heart.
But I see that it is not to be. So farewell to
my fancy!”
He made Liza a low bow, and went back into the house.
She hoped he would go away directly; but he went to
her mother’s boudoir, and remained an hour with
her. As he was leaving the house he said to Liza,
“Votre mere vous appelle: Adieu a jamais!”
then he got on his horse, and immediately set off
at full gallop.
On going to her mother’s room, Liza found her
in tears. Panshine had told her about his failure.
“Why should you kill me? Why should you
kill me?” Thus did the mortified widow begin
her complaint. “What better man do you want?
Why is he not fit to be your husband? A chamberlain!
and so disinterested Why, at Petersburg he might marry
any of the maids of honor! And I—I
had so longed for it. And how long is it since
you changed your mind about him? Wherever has
this cloud blown from?—for it has never
come of its own accord. Surely it isn’t
that wiseacre? A pretty adviser you have found,
if that’s the case!”
“And as for him, my poor, dear friend,”
continued Maria Dmitrievna, “how respectful
he was, how attentive, even in the midst of his sorrow!
He has promised not to desert me. Oh, I shall
never be able to bear this! Oh, my head is beginning
to ache dreadfully! Send Palashka here.
You will kill me, if you don’t think better of
it. Do you hear?” And then, after having
told Liza two or three times that she was ungrateful,
Maria Dmitrievna let her go away.
