Next he learned that a daughter had been born to him.
Two months later he was informed by his steward that
Varvara Pavlovna had drawn her first quarter’s
allowance. After that, scandalous reports about
her began to arrive; then they became more and more
frequent; at last a tragicomic story, in which she
played a very unenviable part, ran the round of all
the journals, and created a great sensation.
Affairs had come to a climax. Varvara Pavlovna
was now “a celebrity.”
Lavretsky ceased to follow her movements. But
it was long before he could master his own feelings.
Sometimes he was seized by such a longing after his
wife, that he fancied he would have been ready to
give every thing he had—that he could, perhaps,
even have forgiven her—if only he might
once more have heard her caressing voice, have felt
once more her hand in his. But time did not pass
by in vain. He was not born for suffering.
His healthy nature claimed its rights. Many things
became intelligible for him. The very blow which
had struck him seemed no longer to have come without
warning. He understood his wife now. We
can never fully understand persons with whom we are
generally in close contact, until we have been separated
from them. He was able to apply himself to business
again, and to study, although now with much less than
his former ardor; the scepticism for which both his
education and his experience of life had paved the
way, had taken lasting hold upon his mind. He
became exceedingly indifferent to every thing.
Four years passed by, and he felt strong enough to
return to his home, to meet his own people. Without
having stopped either at St. Petersburg or at Moscow,
he arrived at O., where we left him, and whither we
now entreat the reader to return with us.
XVII.
About ten o’clock in the morning, on the day
after that of which we have already spoken, Lavretsky
was going up the steps of the Kalitines’ house,
when he met Liza with her bonnet and gloves on.
“Where are you going?” he asked her.
“To church. To-day is Sunday.”
“And so you go to church?”
Liza looked at him in silent wonder.
“I beg your pardon,” said Lavretsky.
“I—I did not mean to say that.
I came to take leave of you. I shall start for
my country-house in another hour.”
“That isn’t far from here, is it?”
asked Liza.
“About five-and-twenty versts.”
At this moment Lenochka appeared at the door, accompanied
by a maid-servant.
“Mind you don’t forget us,” said
Liza, and went down the steps.
“Don’t forget me either. By the way,”
he continued, “you are going to church; say
a prayer for me too, while you are there.”
Liza stopped and turned towards him.
“Very well,” she said, looking him full
in the face. “I will pray for you, too.
Come, Lenochka.”
Lavretsky found Maria Dmitrievna alone in the drawing-room,
which was redolent of Eau de Cologne and peppermint.
Her head ached, she said, and she had spent a restless
night.
