With Lemm, Mihalevitch did not get on; his noisy talk
and brusque manners scared the German, who was unused
to such behaviour. One poor devil detects another
by instinct at once, but in old age he rarely gets
on with him, and that is hardly astonishing, he has
nothing to share with him, not even hopes.
Before setting off, Mihalevitch had another long discussion
with Lavretsky, foretold his ruin, if he did not see
the error of his ways, exhorted him to devote himself
seriously to the welfare of his peasants, and pointed
to himself as an example, saying that he had been purified
in the furnace of suffering; and in the same breath
called himself several times a happy man, comparing
himself with the fowl of the air and the lily of the
field.
“A black lily, any way,” observed Lavretsky.
“Ah, brother, don’t be a snob!”
retorted Mihalevitch, good-naturedly, “but thank
God rather there is a pure plebeian blood in your veins
too. But I see that you want some pure, heavenly
creature to draw you out of your apathy.”
“Thanks, brother,” remarked Lavretsky.
“I have had quite enough of those heavenly
creatures.”
“Silence, ceeneec!” cried Mihalevitch.
“Cynic,” Lavretsky corrected him.
“Ceeneec, just so,” repeated Mihalevitch
unabashed.
Even when he had taken his seat in the carriage, to
which his flat, yellow, strangely light trunk was
carried, he still talked; muffled in a kind of Spanish
cloak with a collar, brown with age, and a clasp of
two lion’s paws; he went on developing his views
on the destiny of Russian, and waving his swarthy
hand in the air, as though he were sowing the seeds
of her future prosperity. The horses started at
last.
“Remember my three last words,” he cried,
thrusting his whole body out of the carriage and balancing
so, “Religion, progress, humanity! . . .
Farewell.”
His head, with a foraging cap pulled down over his
eyes, disappeared. Lavretsky was left standing
alone on the steps, and he gazed steadily into the
distance along the road till the carriage disappeared
out of sight. “Perhaps he is right, after
all,” he thought as he went back into the house;
“perhaps I am a loafer.” Many of Mihalevitch’s
words had sunk irresistibly into his heart, though
he had disputed and disagreed with him. If a
man only has a good heart, no one can resist him.
Two days later, Marya Dmitrievna visited Vassilyevskoe
according to her promise, with all her young people.
The little girls ran at once into the garden, while
Marya Dmitrievna languidly walked through the rooms
and languidly admired everything. She regarded
her visit to Lavretsky as a sign of great condescension,
almost as a deed of charity. She smiled graciously
when Anton and Apraxya kissed her hand in the old-fashioned
house-servants’ style; and in a weak voice, speaking
through her nose, asked for some tea. To the
