Vasíli Nikoláich in holiday costume and with oiled hair was sitting at tea with his wife and a guest who was wearing an oriental kerchief.
‘I want a word with you, Vasíli Nikoláich!’
‘Please say what you want to. We have finished tea.’
‘No. I’d rather you came out with me.’
‘Directly; only let me get my cap. Tánya, put out the samovar,’ said Vasíli Nikoláich, stepping outside cheerfully.
It seemed to Eugène that Vasíli had been drinking, but what was to be done? It might be all the better – he would sympathize with him in his difficulties the more readily.
‘I have come again to speak about that same matter, Vasíli Nikoláich,’ said Eugène – ‘about that woman.’
‘Well, what of her? I told them not to take her again on any account.’
‘No, I have been thinking in general, and this is what I wanted to take your advice about. Isn’t it possible to get them away, to send the whole family away?’
‘Where can they be sent?’ said Vasíli, disapprovingly and ironically as it seemed to Eugène.
‘Well, I thought of giving them money, or even some land in Koltóvski, – so that she should not be here.’
‘But how can they be sent away? Where is he to go – torn up from his roots? And why should you do it? What harm can she do you?’
‘Ah, Vasíli Nikoláich, you must understand that it would be dreadful for my wife to hear of it.’
‘But who will tell her?’
‘How can I live with this dread? The whole thing is very painful for me.’
‘But really, why should you distress yourself? Whoever stirs up the past – out with his eye! Who is not a sinner before God and to blame before the Tsar, as the saying is?’
‘All the same it would be better to get rid of them. Can’t you speak to the husband?’
‘But it is no use speaking! Eh, Eugène Ivánich, what is the matter with you? It is all past and forgotten. All sorts of things happen. Who is there that would now say anything bad of you? Everybody sees you.’
‘But all the same go and have a talk with him.’
‘All right, I will speak to him.’
Though he knew that nothing would come of it, this talk somewhat calmed Eugène. Above all, it made him feel that through excitement he had been exaggerating the danger.
Had he gone to meet her by appointment? It was impossible. He had simply gone to stroll in the garden and she had happened to run out at the same time.
XIV
AFTER dinner that very Trinity Sunday Liza while walking from the garden to the meadow, where her husband wanted to show her the clover, took a false step and fell when crossing a little ditch. She fell gently, on her side; but she gave an exclamation, and her husband saw an expression in her face not only of fear but of pain. He was about to help her up, but she motioned him away with her hand.
‘No, wait a bit, Eugène,’ she said, with a weak smile, and looked up guiltily as it seemed to him. ‘My foot only gave way under me.’
‘There, I always say,’ remarked Varvára Alexéevna, ‘can anyone in her condition possibly jump over ditches?’
‘But it is all right, mamma. I shall get up directly.’ With her husband’s help she did get up, but she immediately turned pale, and looked frightened.
‘Yes, I am not well!’ and she whispered something to her mother.
‘Oh, my God, what have you done! I said you ought not to go there,’ cried Varvára Alexéevna. ‘Wait – I will call the servants. She must not walk. She must be carried!’
‘Don’t be afraid, Liza, I will carry you,’ said Eugène, putting his left arm round her. ‘Hold me by the neck. Like that.’ And stooping down he put his right arm under her knees and lifted her. He could never afterwards forget the suffering and yet beatific expression of her face.
‘I am too heavy for you, dear,’ she said with a smile. ‘Mamma is running, tell her!’ And she bent towards him and kissed him. She evidently wanted her mother to see how he was carrying her.
Eugène shouted to Varvára Alexéevna not to hurry, and that he would carry Liza home. Varvára Alexéevna stopped and began to shout still louder.
‘You will drop her, you’ll be sure to drop her. You want to destroy her. You have no conscience!’
‘But I am carrying her excellently.’
‘I do not want to watch you killing my daughter, and I can’t.’ And she ran round the bend in the alley.
‘Never mind, it will pass,’ said Liza, smiling.
‘Yes. If only it does not have consequences like last time.’
‘No. I am not speaking of that. That is all right. I mean mamma. You are tired. Rest a bit.’
But though he found it heavy, Eugène carried his burden proudly and gladly to the house and did not hand her over to the housemaid and the man-cook whom Varvára Alexéevna had found and sent to meet them. He carried her to the bedroom and put her on the bed.
‘Now go away,’ she said, and drawing his hand to her she kissed it. ‘Ánnushka and I will manage all right.’
Mary Pávlovna also ran in from her rooms in the wing. They undressed Liza and laid her on the bed. Eugène sat in the drawing-room with a book in his hand, waiting. Varvára Alexéevna went past him with such a reproachfully gloomy air that he felt alarmed.
‘Well, how is it?’ he asked.
‘How is it? What’s the good of asking? It is probably what you wanted when you made your wife jump over the ditch.’
‘Varvára Alexéevna!’ he cried. ‘This is impossible. If you want to torment people and to poison their life’ (he wanted to say, ‘then go elsewhere to do it,’ but restrained himself). ‘How is it that it does not hurt you?’
‘It is too late now.’ And shaking her cap in a triumphant manner she passed out by the door.
The fall had really been a bad one; Liza’s foot had twisted awkwardly and there was danger of her having another miscarriage. Everyone knew that there was nothing to be done but that she must just lie quietly, yet all the same they decided to send for a doctor.
‘Dear Nikoláy Semënich,’ wrote Eugène to the doctor, ‘you have always been so kind to us that I hope you will not refuse to come to my wife’s assistance. She …’ and so on. Having written the letter he went to the stables to arrange about the horses and the carriage. Horses had to be got ready to bring the doctor and others to take him back. When an estate is not run on a large scale, such things cannot be quickly decided but have to be considered. Having arranged it all and dispatched the coachman, it was past nine before he got back to the house. His wife was lying down, and said that she felt perfectly well and had no pain. But Varvára Alexéevna was sitting with a lamp screened from Liza by some sheets of music and knitting a large red coverlet, with a mien that said that after what had happened peace was impossible, but that she at any rate would do her duty no matter what anyone else did.
Eugène noticed this, but, to appear as if he had not done so, tried to assume a cheerful and tranquil air and told how he had chosen the horses and how capitally the mare, Kabúshka, had galloped as left trace-horse in the troyka.
‘Yes, of course, it is just the time to exercise the horses when help is needed. Probably the doctor will also be thrown into the ditch,’ remarked Varvára Alexéevna, examining her knitting from under her pince-nez and moving it close up to the lamp.