Such was Liza.

XXXIV.

About the middle of the next day Lavretsky went to the Kalitines’.  On his way there he met Panshine, who galloped past on horseback, his hat pulled low over his eyes.  At the Kalitines’, Lavretsky was not admitted, for the first time since he had made acquaintance with the family.  Maria Dmitrievna was asleep, the footman declared; her head ached, Marfa Timofeevna and Lizaveta Mikhailovna were not at home.

Lavretsky walked round the outside of the garden in the vague hope of meeting Liza, but he saw no one.  Two hours later he returned to the house, but received the same answer as before; moreover, the footman looked at him in a somewhat marked manner.  Lavretsky thought it would be unbecoming to call three times in one day, so he determined to drive out to Vasilievskoe, where, moreover, he had business to transact.

On his way there he framed various plans, each one more charming than the rest.  But on his arrival at his aunt’s estate, sadness took hold of him.  He entered into conversation with Anton; but the old man, as if purposely, would dwell on none but gloomy ideas.  He told Lavretsky how Glafira Petrovna, just before her death, had bitten her own hand.  And then, after an interval of silence, he added with a sigh, “Every man, barin batyushka,[A] is destined to devour himself.”

[Footnote A:  Seigneur, father.]

It was late in the day before Lavretsky set out on his return.  The music he had heard the night before came back into his mind, and the image of Liza dawned on his heart in all its sweet serenity.  He was touched by the thought that she loved him; and he arrived at his little house in the town, tranquillized and happy.

The first thing that struck him when he entered the vestibule, was a smell of patchouli, a perfume he disliked exceedingly.  He observed that a number of large trunks and boxes were standing there, and he thought there was a strange expression on the face of the servant who hastily came to meet him.  He did not stop to analyze his impressions, but went straight into the drawing-room.

A lady, who wore a black silk dress with flounces, and whose pale face was half hidden by a cambric handkerchief, rose from the sofa, took a few steps to meet him, bent her carefully-arranged and perfumed locks—­and fell at his feet.  Then for the first time, he recognized her.  That lady was his wife!

His breathing stopped.  He leaned against the wall.

“Do not drive me from you, Theodore!” she said in French; and her voice cut him to the heart like a knife.  He looked at her without comprehending what he saw, and yet, at the same time, he involuntarily remarked that she had grown paler and stouter.