There were no lights in the room, but the rays of
the rising moon entered obliquely through the window.
The listening air seemed to tremble into music, and
the poor little apartment looked like a sanctuary,
while the silvery half-light gave to the head of the
old man a noble and spiritual expression.
Lavretsky came up to him and embraced him. At
first Lemm did not respond to his embrace—even
put him aside with his elbow. Then he remained
rigid for some time, without moving any of his limbs,
wearing the same severe, almost repellent, look as
before, and only growling out twice, “Aha!”
But at last a change came over him, his face grew
calm, and his head was no longer thrown back.
Then, in reply to Lavretsky’s warm congratulations,
he first smiled a little, and afterwards began to
cry, sobbing faintly, like a child.
“It is wonderful,” he said, “your
coming just at this very moment. But I know every
thing—I know all about it.”
“You know every thing?” exclaimed Lavretsky
in astonishment.
“You have heard what I said,” replied
Lemm. “Didn’t you understand that
I knew every thing?”
* * * *
*
Lavretsky did not get to sleep till the morning.
All night long he remained sitting on the bed.
Neither did Liza sleep. She was praying.
The reader knows how Lavretsky had been brought up
and educated. We will now say a few words about
Liza’s education. She was ten years old
when her father died, who had troubled himself but
little about her. Overwhelmed with business,
constantly absorbed in the pursuit of adding to his
income, a man of bilious temperament and a sour and
impatient nature, he never grudged paying for the teachers
and tutors, or for the dress and the other necessaries
required by his children, but he could not bear “to
nurse his squallers,” according to his own expression—and,
indeed, he never had any time for nursing them.
He used to work, become absorbed in business, sleep
a little, play cards on rare occasions, then work
again. He often compared himself to a horse yoked
to a threshing machine. “My life has soon
been spent,” he said on his death-bed, a bitter
smile contracting his lips.
As to Maria Dmitrievna, she really troubled herself
about Liza very little more than her husband did,
for all that she had taken credit to herself, when
speaking to Lavretsky, for having educated her children
herself. She used to dress her like a doll, and
when visitors were present, she would caress her and
call her a good child and her darling, and that was
all. Every continuous care troubled that indolent
lady.
