A House of Gentlefolk

A bright spring day was fading into evening. High overhead in the clear heavens small rosy clouds seemed hardly to move across the sky but to be sinking into its depths of blue.

In a handsome house in one of the outlying streets of the government town of O⁠⸺ (it was in the year 1842) two women were sitting at an open window; one was about fifty, the other an old lady of seventy.

The name of the former was Marya Dmitrievna Kalitin. Her husband, a shrewd determined man of obstinate bilious temperament, had been dead for ten years. He had been a provincial public prosecutor, noted in his own day as a successful man of business. He had received a fair education and had been to the university; but having been born in narrow circumstances he realised early in life the necessity of pushing his own way in the world and making money. It had been a love-match on Marya Dmitrievna’s side. He was not bad-looking, was clever and could be very agreeable when he chose. Marya Dmitrievna Pestov⁠—that was her maiden name⁠—had lost her parents in childhood. She spent some years in a boarding-school in Moscow, and after leaving school, lived on the family estate of Pokrovskoe, about forty miles from O⁠⸺, with her aunt and her elder brother. This brother soon after obtained a post in Petersburg, and made them a scanty allowance. He treated his aunt and sister very shabbily till his sudden death cut short his career. Marya Dmitrievna inherited Pokrovskoe, but she did not live there long. Two years after her marriage with Kalitin, who succeeded in winning her heart in a few days, Pokrovskoe was exchanged for another estate, which yielded a much larger income, but was utterly unattractive and had no house.

A tall man entered, wearing a tidy overcoat, rather short trousers, grey doeskin gloves, and two neckties⁠—a black one outside, and a white one below it. There was an air of decorum and propriety in everything about him, from his prosperous countenance and smoothly brushed hair, to his low-heeled, noiseless boots. He bowed first to the lady of the house, then to Marfa Timofyevna, and slowly drawing off his gloves, he advanced to take Marya Dmitrievna’s hand. After kissing it respectfully twice he seated himself with deliberation in an armchair, and rubbing the very tips of his fingers together, he observed with a smile⁠—

“And is Elisaveta Mihalovna quite well?”

“Yes,” replied Marya Dmitrievna, “she’s in the garden.”

“And Elena Mihalovna?”

“Lenotchka’s in the garden too. Is there no news?”

“There is indeed!” replied the visitor, slowly blinking his eyes and pursing up his mouth. “Hm!⁠ ⁠… yes, indeed, there is a piece of news, and very surprising news too. Lavretsky⁠—Fedor Ivanitch is here.”

“Fedya!” cried Marfa Timofyevna. “Are you sure you are not romancing, my good man?”

“No, indeed, I saw him myself.”

“Well, that does not prove it.”

“Fedor Ivanitch looked much more robust,” continued Gedeonovsky, affecting not to have heard Marfa Timofyevna’s last remark. “Fedor Ivanitch is broader and has quite a colour.”

Lavretsky did not at once understand what he had read; he read it a second time, and his head began to swim, the ground began to sway under his feet like the deck of a ship in a rolling sea. He began to cry out and gasp and weep all at the same instant.

He was utterly overwhelmed. He had so blindly believed in his wife; the possibility of deception, of treason, had never presented itself to his mind. This Ernest, his wife’s lover, was a fair-haired pretty boy of three-and-twenty, with a little turned-up nose and refined little moustaches, almost the most insignificant of all her acquaintances. A few minutes passed, half an hour passed, Lavretsky still stood, crushing the fatal note in his hands, and gazing senselessly at the floor; across a kind of tempest of darkness pale shapes hovered about him; his heart was numb with anguish; he seemed to be falling, falling⁠—and a bottomless abyss was opening at his feet. A familiar light rustle of a silk dress roused him from his numbness; Varvara Pavlovna in her hat and shawl was returning in haste from her walk. Lavretsky trembled all over and rushed away; he felt that at that instant he was capable of tearing her to pieces, beating her to death, as a peasant might do, strangling her with his own hands. Varvara Pavlovna in amazement tried to stop him; he could only whisper, “Betsy,”⁠—and ran out of the house.

Lavretsky took a cab and ordered the man to drive him out of town.

“Don’t be afraid; tell me,” he replied, and stood still before her.

Lisa raised her clear eyes to him.

“You are so good,” she began, and at the same time, she thought: “Yes, I am sure he is good”⁠ ⁠… “you will forgive me, I ought not dare to speak of it to you⁠ ⁠… but⁠—how could you⁠ ⁠… why did you separate from your wife?”

Lavretsky shuddered: he looked at Lisa, and sat down near her.

“My child,” he began, “I beg you, do not touch upon that wound; your hands are tender, but it will hurt me all the same.”

“I know,” Lisa went on, as though she did not hear him, “she has been to blame towards you. I don’t want to defend her; but what God has joined, how can you put asunder?”

“Our convictions on that subject are too different, Lisaveta Mihalovna,” Lavretsky observed, rather sharply; “we cannot understand one another.”

Lisa grew paler: her whole frame was trembling slightly; but she was not silenced.

“You must forgive,” she murmured softly, “if you wish to be forgiven.”

“Forgive!” broke in Lavretsky. “Ought you not first to know whom you are interceding for? Forgive that woman, take her back into my home, that empty, heartless creature! And who told you she wants to return to me? She is perfectly contented with her position, I can assure you⁠ ⁠… But what a subject to discuss here! Her name ought never to be uttered by you. You are too pure, you are not capable of understanding such a creature.”

The first thing that struck him as he went into the entrance hall was a scent of patchouli, always distasteful to him; there were some high travelling-trunks standing there. The face of his groom, who ran out to meet him, seemed strange to him. Not stopping to analyse his impressions, he crossed the threshold of the drawing room.⁠ ⁠… On his entrance there rose from the sofa a lady in a black silk dress with flounces, who, raising a cambric handkerchief to her pale face, made a few paces forward, bent her carefully dressed, perfumed head, and fell at his feet.⁠ ⁠… Then, only, he recognised her: this lady was his wife!

He caught his breath.⁠ ⁠… He leaned against the wall.

“Théodore, do not repulse me!” she said in French, and her voice cut to his heart like a knife.

He looked at her senselessly, and yet he noticed involuntarily at once that she had grown both whiter and fatter.

“Théodore!” she went on, from time to time lifting her eyes and discreetly wringing her marvellously-beautiful fingers with their rosy, polished nails.