"Come, now to your home! I know where you live. I'll be with you directly, in a minute. I'll make you the first visit, you stubbornman, and then I must have you for a whole day at home. You can go and make ready for me."
And she galloped off with her cavalier. We returned. Stepan Trofimovitch sat down on the sofa and began to cry. "Dieu, Dieu." he exclaimed, "enfin une minute de bonheur!"
Not more than ten minutes afterwards she reappeared according to her promise, escorted by her Mavriky Nikolaevitch.
"Vous et le bonheur, vous arrivez en meme temps!" He got up to meet her.
"Here's a nosegay for you; I rode just now to Madame Chevalier's, she has flowers all the winter for namedays. Here's Mavriky Nikolaevitch, please make friends. I wanted to bring you a cake instead of a nosegay, but Mavriky Nikolaevitch declares that is not in the Russian spirit."
Mavriky Nikolaevitch was an artillery captain, a tall and handsome man of thirty-three, irreproachably correct in appearance, with an imposing and at first sight almost stern countenance, in spite of his wonderful and delicate kindness which no one could fail to perceive almost the first moment of making his acquaintance. He was taciturn, however, seemed very self-possessed and made no efforts to gain friends. Many of us said later that he was by no means clever; but this was not altogether just.
I won't attempt to describe the beauty of Lizaveta Nikolaevna. The whole town was talking of it, though some of our ladies and young girls indignantly differed on the subject. There were some among them who already detested her, and principally for her pride. The Drozdovs had scarcely begun to pay calls, which mortified them, though the real reason for the delay was Praskovya Ivanovna's invalid state. They detested her in the second place because she was a relative of the governor's wife, and thirdly because she rode
out every day on horseback. We had never had young ladies who rode on horseback before; it was only natural that the appearance of Lizaveta Nikolaevna on horseback and her neglect to pay calls was bound to offend local society. Yet every one knew that riding was prescribed her by the doctor's orders, and they talked sarcastically of her illness. She really was ill. What struck me at first sight in her was her abnormal, nervous, incessant restlessness. Alas, the poor girl was very unhappy, and everything was explained later. To-day, recalling the past, I should not say she was such a beauty as she seemed to me then. Perhaps she was really not pretty at
all. Tall, slim, but strong and supple, she struck one by the irregularities of the lines of her face. Her eyes were set somewhat like a Kalmuck's, slanting; she was pale and thin in the face with high cheek-bones, but there was something in the face that conquered and fascinated! There was something powerful in the ardent glance of her dark eyes. She always made her appearance "like a conquering heroine, and to spread her conquests." She seemed proud and at times even arrogant. I don't know whether she succeeded in being kind, but I know that she wanted to, and made terrible efforts to force herself to be a little kind. There were, no doubt, many fine impulses and the very best elements in her character, but everything in her seemed perpetually seeking its balance and unable to find it; everything was in chaos, in agitation, in uneasiness. Perhaps the demands she made upon herself were too severe, and she was never able to find in herself the strength to satisfy them.
She sat on the sofa and looked round the room.
"Why do I always begin to feel sad at such moments; explain that mystery, you learned person? I've been thinking all my life that I
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should be goodness knows how pleased at seeing you and recalling everything, and here I somehow don't feel pleased at all, although
I do love you.... Ach, heavens! He has my portrait on the wall! Give it here. I remember it! I remember it!"
An exquisite miniature in water-colour of Liza at twelve years old had been sent nine years before to Stepan Trofimovitch from
Petersburg by the Drozdovs. He had kept it hanging on his wall ever since. "Was I such a pretty child? Can that really have been my face?"
She stood up, and with the portrait in her hand looked in the looking-glass.
"Make haste, take it!" she cried, giving back the portrait. "Don't hang it up now, afterwards. I don't want to look at it."
She sat down on the sofa again. "One life is over and another is begun, then that one is over--a third begins, and so on, endlessly. All the ends are snipped off as it were with scissors. See what stale things I'm telling you. Yet how much truth there is in them!"
She looked at me, smiling; she had glanced at me several times already, but in his excitement Stepan Trofimovitch forgot that he had
promised to introduce me.
"And why have you hung my portrait under those daggers? And why have you got so many daggers and sabres?"
He had as a fact hanging on the wall, I don't know why, two crossed daggers and above them a genuine Circassian sabre. As she asked this question she looked so directly at me that I wanted to answer, but hesitated to speak. Stepan Trofimovitch grasped the position at last and introduced me.
"I know, I know," she said, "I'm delighted to meet you. Mother has heard a great deal about you, too. Let me introduce you to Mavriky Nikolaevitch too, he's a splendid person. I had formed a funny notion of you already. You're Stepan Trofimovitch's confidant, aren't you?"
I turned rather red.
"Ach, forgive me, please. I used quite the wrong word: not funny at all, but only..." She was confused and blushed. "Why be ashamed though at your being a splendid person? Well, it's time we were going, Mavriky Nikolaevitch! Stepan Trofimovitch, you must be with us in half an hour. Mercy, what a lot we shall talk! Now I'm your confidante, and about everything, everything, you understand?"
Stepan Trofimovitch was alarmed at once.
"Oh, Mavriky Nikolaevitch knows everything, don't mind him!" "What does he know?"
"Why, what do you mean?" she cried in astonishment. "Bah, why it's true then that they're hiding it! I wouldn't believe it! And they're hiding Dasha, too. Aunt wouldn't let me go in to see Dasha to-day. She says she's got a headache."
"But... but how did you find out?"
"My goodness, like every one else. That needs no cunning!" "But does every one else...?"
"Why, of course. Mother, it's true, heard it first through Alyona Frolovna, my nurse; your Nastasya ran round to tell her. You told
Nastasya, didn't you? She says you told her yourself."
"I... I did once speak," Stepan Trofimovitch faltered, crimsoning all over, "but... I only hinted... j'etais si nerveux et malade, et puis..."
She laughed.
"And your confidant didn't happen to be at hand, and Nastasya turned up. Well that was enough! And the whole town's full of her
cronies! Come, it doesn't matter, let them know; it's all the better. Make haste and come to us, we dine early.... Oh, I forgot," she
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added, sitting down again; "listen, what sort of person is Shatov?" "Shatov? He's the brother of Darya Pavlovna."
"I know he's her brother! What a person you are, really," she interrupted impatiently. "I want to know what he's like; what sort of man he is."
