Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  “Are you not going to take her with you!” Marya Dmitrievna cried after him.... “Leave him alone,” Varvara Pavlovna whispered to her. And at once she embraced her, and began thanking her, kissing her hands and calling her saviour.

  Marya Dmitrievna received her caresses indulgently; but at heart she was discontented with Lavretsky, with Varvara Pavlovna, and with the whole scene she had prepared. Very little sentimentality had come of it; Varvara Pavlovna, in her opinion, ought to have flung herself at her husband’s feet.

  “How was it you didn’t understand me?” she commented: “I kept saying ‘down.’“

  “It is better as it was, dear auntie; do not be uneasy — it was all for the best,” Varvara Pavlovna assured her.

  “Well, any way, he’s as cold as ice,” observed Marya Dmitrievna. “You didn’t weep, it is true, but I was in floods of tears before his eyes. He wants to shut you up at Lavriky. Why, won’t you even be able to come and see me? All men are unfeeling,” she concluded, with a significant shake of the head.

  “But then women can appreciate goodness and noble - heartedness,” said Varvara Pavlovna, and gently dropping on her knees before Marya Dmitrievna, she flung her arms about her round person, and pressed her face against it. That face wore a sly smile, but Marya Dmitrievna’s tears began to flow again.

  When Lavretsky returned home, he locked himself in his valet’s room, and flung himself on a sofa; he lay like that till morning.

  Chapter XLIV

  The following day was Sunday. The sound of bells ringing for early mass did not wake Lavretsky — he had not closed his eyes all night — but it reminded him of another Sunday, when at Lisa’s desire he had gone to church. He got up hastily; some secret voice told him that he would see her there to - day. He went noiselessly out of the house, leaving a message for Varvara Pavlovna that he would be back to dinner, and with long strides he made his way in the direction in which the monotonously mournful bells were calling him. He arrived early; there was scarcely any one in the church; a deacon was reading the service in the chair; the measured drone of his voice — sometimes broken by a cough — fell and rose at even intervals. Lavretsky placed himself not far from the entrance. Worshippers came in one by one, stopped, crossed themselves, and bowed in all directions; their steps rang out in the empty, silent church, echoing back distinctly under the arched roof. An infirm poor little old woman in a worn - out cloak with a hood was on her knees near Lavretsky, praying assiduously; her toothless, yellow, wrinkled face expressed intense emotion; her red eyes were gazing fixedly upwards at the holy figures on the iconostasis; her bony hand was constantly coming out from under her cloak, and slowly and earnestly making a great sign of the cross. A peasant with a bushy beard and a surly face, dishevelled and unkempt, came into the church, and at once fell on both knees, and began directly crossing himself in haste, bending back his head with a shake after each prostration. Such bitter grief was expressed in his face, and in all his actions, that Lavretsky made up his mind to go up to him and ask him what was wrong. The peasant timidly and morosely started back, looked at him.... “My son is dead,” he articulated quickly, and again fell to bowing to the earth. “What could replace the consolations of the Church to them?” thought Lavretsky; and he tried! himself to pray, but his heart was hard and heavy, and his thoughts were far away. He kept expecting Lisa, but Lisa did not come. The church began to be full of people; but still she was not there. The service commenced, the deacon had already read the gospel, they began ringing for the last prayer; Lavretsky moved a little forward — and suddenly caught sight of Lisa. She had com before him, but he had not seen her; she was hidden in a recess between the wall and the choir, and neither moved nor looked round. Lavretsky did not take his eyes off he till the very end of the service; he was saying farewell to her. The people began to disperse, but she still remained; it seemed as though she were waiting for Lavretsky to go out. At last she crossed herself for the last time and went out — there was only a maid with her — not turning round. Lavretsky went out of the church after her and overtook her in the street; she was walking very quickly, with downcast head, and a veil over her face.

  “Good - morning, Lisaveta Mihalovna,” he said aloud with assumed carelessness: “may I accompany you?”

  She made no reply; he walked beside her.

  “Are you content with me?” he asked her, dropping his voice. “Have you heard what happened yesterday?”

  “Yes, yes,” she replied in a whisper, “that was well.” And she went still more quickly.

  “Are you content?”

  Lisa only bent her head in assent.

  “Fedor Ivanitch,” she began in a calm but faint voice, “I wanted to beg you not to come to see us any more; go away as soon as possible, we may see each other again later — sometime — in a year. But now, do this for my sake; fulfil my request, for God’s sake.”

  “I am ready to obey you in everything, Lisaveta Mihalovna; but are we really to part like this? will you not say one word to me?”

  “Fedor Ivanitch, you are walking near me now.... But already you are so far from me. And not only you, but — ”

  “Speak out, I entreat you!” cried Lavretsky, “what do you mean?”

  “You will hear perhaps... but whatever it may be, forget... no, do not forget; remember me.”

  “Me forget you — ”

  “That’s enough, good - bye. Do not come after me.”

  “Lisa!” Lavretsky was beginning.

  “Good - bye, good - bye!” she repeated, pulling her veil still lower and almost running forward. Lavretsky looked after her, and with bowed head, turned back along the street. He stumbled up against Lemm, who was also walking along with his eyes on the ground, and his hat pulled down to his nose.

  They looked at one another without speaking.

  “Well, what have you to say?” Lavretsky brought out at last.

  “What have I to say?” returned Lemm, grimly. “I have nothing to say. All is dead, and we are dead (Alles ist todt, und wir sind todt). So you’re going to the right, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I go to the left. Good - bye.”

  The following morning Fedor Ivanitch set off with his wife for Lavriky. She drove in front in the carriage with Ada and Justine; he behind, in the coach. The pretty little girl did not move away from the window the whole journey; she was astonished at everything; the peasants, the women, the wells, the yokes over the horses’ heads, the bells and the flocks of crows. Justine shared her wonder. Varvara Pavlovna laughed at their remarks and exclamations. She was in excellent spirits; before leaving town, she had come to an explanation with her husband.

  “I understand your position,” she said to him, and from the look in her subtle eyes, he was able to infer that she understood his position fully, “but you must do me, at least, this justice, that I am easy to live with; I will not fetter you or hinder you; I wanted to secure Ada’s future, I want nothing more.”

  “Well, you have obtained your object,” observed Fedor Ivanitch.

  “I only dream of one thing now: to hide myself for ever in obscurity. I shall remember your goodness always.”

  “Enough of that,” he interrupted.

  “And I shall know how to respect your independence and tranquillity,” she went on, completing the phrases she had prepared.

  Lavretsky made her a low bow.

  Varvara Pavlovna then believed her husband was thanking her in his heart.

  On the evening of the next day they reached Lavriky; a week later, Lavretsky set off for Moscow, leaving his wife five thousand roubles for her household expenses; and the day after Lavretsky’s departure, Panshin made his appearance. Varvara Pavlovna had begged him not to forget her in her solitude. She gave him the best possible reception, and, till a late hour of the night, the lofty apartments of the house and even the garden re - echoed with the sound of music, singing, and lively French talk. For three days Varvara Pavlovna entertained Panshin
; when he took leave of her, warmly pressing her lovely hands, he promised to come back very soon — and he kept his word.

  Chapter XLV

  Lisa had a room to herself on the second story of her mother’s house, a clean bright little room with a little white bed, with pots of flowers in the corners and before the windows, a small writing - table, a book - stand, and a crucifix on the wall. It was always called the nursery; Lisa had been born in it. When she returned from the church where she had seen Lavretsky she set everything in her room in order more carefully than usual, dusted it everywhere, looked through and tied up with ribbon all her copybooks, and the letters of her girl - friends, shut up all the drawers, watered the flowers and caressed every blossom with her hand. All this she did without haste, noiselessly, with a kind of rapt and gentle solicitude on her face. She topped at last in the middle of the room, slowly looked around, and going up to the table above which the crucifix was hanging, she fell on her knees, dropped her head on to her clasped hands and remained motionless.

  Marfa Timofyevna came in and found her in this position. Lisa did not observe her entrance. The old lady stepped out on tip - toe and coughed loudly several times outside the door. Lisa rose quickly and wiped her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears.

  “Ah! I see, you have been setting your cell to rights again,” observed Marfa Timofyevna, and she bent low over a young rose - tree in a pot; “how nice it smells!”

  Lisa looked thoughtfully at her aunt.

  “How strange you should use that word!” she murmured.

  “What word, eh?” the old lady returned quickly. “What do you mean? This is horrible,” she began, suddenly flinging off her cap and sitting down on Lisa’s little bed; “it is more than I can bear! this is the fourth day now that I have been boiling over inside; I can’t pretend not to notice any longer; I can’t see you getting pale, and fading away, and weeping, I can’t I can’t!”

  “Why, what is the matter, auntie?” said Lisa, “it’s nothing.”

  “Nothing!” cried Marfa Timofyevna; “you may tell that to others but not to me. Nothing, who was on her knees just to this minute? and whose eyelashes are still wet with tears? Nothing, indeed! why, look at yourself, what have you done with your face, what has become of your eyes? — Nothing! do you suppose I don’t know all?”

  “It will pass off, auntie; give me time.”

  “It will pass of, but when? Good God! Merciful Saviour! can you have loved him like this? why, he’s an old man, Lisa, darling. There, I don’t dispute he’s a good fellow, no harm in him; but what of that? we are all good people, the world is not so small, there will be always plenty of that commodity.”

  “I tell you, it will all pass away, it has all passed away already.”

  “Listen, Lisa, darling, what I am going to say to you,” Marfa Timofyevna said suddenly, making Lisa sit beside her, and straightening her hair and her neckerchief. “It seems to you now in the mist of the worst of it that nothing can ever heal your sorrow. Ah, my darling, the only thing that can’t be cured is death. You only say to yourself now: ‘I won’t give in to it — so there!’ and you will be surprised yourself how soon, how easily it will pass of. Only have patience.”

  “Auntie,” returned Lisa, “it has passed off already, it is all over.”

  “Passed! how has it passed? Why, your poor little nose has grown sharp already and you say it is over. A fine way of getting over it!”

  “Yes, it is over, auntie, if you will only try to help me,” Lisa declared with sudden animation, and she flung herself on Marfa Timofyevna’s neck. “Dar auntie, be a friend to me, help me, don’t be angry, understand me”...

  “Why, what is it, what is it, my good girl? Don’t terrify me, please; I shall scream directly; don’t look at me like that; tell me quickly, what is it?”

  “I — I want,” Lisa hid her face on Marfa Timofyevna’s bosom, “I want to go into a convent,” she articulated faintly.

  The old lady almost bounded off the bed.

  “Cross yourself, my girl, Lisa, dear, think what you are saying; what are you thinking of? God have mercy on you!” she stammered at last. “Lie down, my darling, sleep a little, all this comes from sleeplessness, my dearie.”

  Lisa raised her head, her cheeks were glowing.

  “No, auntie,” she said, “don’t speak like that; I have made up my mind, I prayed, I asked counsel of God; all is at an end, my life with you is at an end. Such a lesson was not for nothing; and it is not the first time that I have thought of it. Happiness was not for me; even when I had hopes of happiness, my heart was always heavy. I knew all my own sins and those of others, and how papa made our fortune; I know it all. For all that there must be expiation. I am sorry for you, sorry for mamma, for Lenotchka; but there is no help; I feel that there is no living here for me; I have taken leave of all, I have greeted everything in the house for the last time; something calls to me; I am sick at heart, I want to hide myself away for ever. Do not hinder me, do not dissuade me, help me, or else I must go away alone.”

  Marfa Timofyevna listened to her niece with horror.

  “She is ill, she is raving,” she thought: “we must send for a doctor; but for which one? Gedeonovsky was praising one the other day; he always tells lies — but perhaps this time he spoke the truth.” But when she was convinced that Lisa was not ill, and was not raving, when she constantly made the same answer to all her expostulations, Marfa Timofyevna was alarmed and distressed in earnest. “But you don’t know, my darling,” she began to reason with her, “what a life it is in those convents! Why, they would feed you, my own, on green hemp oil, and they would put you in the coarsest linen, and make you go about in the cold; you will never be able to bear all that, Lisa, darling. All this is Agafya’s doing; she led you astray. But then you know she began by living and lived for her own pleasure; you must live, too. At least, let me die in peace, and then do as you like. And who has ever heard of such a thing, for the sake of such a — for the sake of a goat’s beard, God forgive us! — for the sake of a man — to go into a convent! Why, if you are so sick at heart, go on a pilgrimage, offer prayers to some saint, have a Te Deum sung, but don’t put the black hood on your head, my dear creature, my good girl.”

  And Marfa Timofyevna wept bitterly.

  Lisa comforted her, wiped away her tears and wept herself, but remained unshaken. In her despair Marfa Timofyevna had recourse to threats: to tell her mother all about it... but that too was of no avail. Only at the old lady’s most earnest entreaties Lisa agreed to put off carrying out her plan for six months. Marfa Timofyevna was obliged to promise in return that if, within six months, she did not change her mind, she would herself help her and would do all she could to gain Marya Dmitrievna’s consent.

  In spite of her promise to bury herself in seclusion, at the first approach of cold weather, Varvara Pavlovna, having provided herself with funds, removed to Petersburg, where she took a modest but charming set of apartments, found for her by Panshin; who had left the O — — - district a little before. During the latter part of his residence in O — — - he had completely lost Marya Dmitrievna’s good graces; he had suddenly given up visiting her and scarcely stirred from Lavriky. Varvara Pavolvna had enslaved him, literally enslaved him, no other word can describe her boundless, irresistible, unquestioned sway over him.

  Lavretsky spent the winter in Moscow; and in the spring of the following year the news reached him that Lisa had taken the veil in the B — — - convent, in one of the remote parts of Russia.

  Epilogue

  Eight years had passed by. Once more the spring had come.... But we will say a few words first of the fate of Mihalevitch, Panshin, and Madame Laverestky — and then take leave of them. Mihalevitch, after long wanderings, has at last fallen in with exactly the right work for him; he has received the position of senior superintendent of a government school. He is very well content with his lot; his pupils adore him, though they mimick him too. Panshin has gained great adv
ancement in rank, and already has a directorship in view; he walks with a slight stoop, caused doubtless by the weight round his neck of the Vladimir cross which has been conferred on him. The official in him has finally gained the ascendency over the artist; his still youngish face has grown yellow, and his hair scanty; he now neither sings nor sketches, but applies himself in secret to literature; he has written a comedy, in the style of a “proverb,” and as nowadays all writers have to draw a portrait of some one or something, he has drawn in it the portrait of a coquette, and he reads it privately to two or three ladies who look kindly upon him. He has, however, not entered upon matrimony, though many excellent opportunities of doing so have presented themselves. For this Varvara Pavlovna was responsible. As for her, she lives constantly at Paris, as in former days. Fedor Ivanitch has given her a promissory note for a large sum, and has so secured immunity from the possibility of her making a second sudden descent upon him. She has grown older and stouter, but is still charming and elegant. Every one has his ideal. Varvara Pavlovna found hers in the dramatic works of M. Dumas Fils. She diligently frequents the theatres, when consumptive and sentimental “dames aux camelias” are brought on the stage; to be Madame Doche seems to her the height of human bliss; she once declared that she did not desire a better fate for her own daughter. It is to be hoped that fate will spare Mademoiselle Ada from such happiness; from a rosy - cheeked, chubby child she has turned into a weak - chested, pale girl; her nerves are already deranged. The number of Varvara Pavlovna adorers has diminished, but she still has some; a few she will probably retain to the end of her days. The most ardent of them in these later days is a certain Zakurdalo - Skubrinikov, a retired guardsman, a full - bearded man of thirty - eight, of exceptionally vigorous physique. The French habitues of Madame Lavretsky’s salon call him “le gros taureau de l’Ukraine;” Varvara Pavlovna never invites him to her fashionable evening reunions, but he is in the fullest enjoyment of her favours.