"Liza! for G.o.d's sake! You ask what is impossible. I am ready to do every thing you tell me; but to be reconciled with her _now_!--I consent to every thing, I have forgotten every thing; but I cannot do violence to my heart. Have some pity; this is cruel!"

"But I do not ask you to do what is impossible. Do not live with her if you really cannot do so. But be reconciled with her," answered Liza, once more hiding her face in her hands. "Remember your daughter; and, besides, do it for my sake."

"Very good," said Lavretsky between his teeth. "Suppose I do this--in this I shall be fulfilling my duty; well, but you--in what does your duty consist?"

"That I know perfectly well."

Lavretsky suddenly shuddered.

"Surely you have not made up your mind to many Panshine?" he asked.

"Oh, no!" replied Liza, with an almost imperceptible smile.

"Ah! Liza, Liza!" exclaimed Lavretsky, "how happy we might have been!"

Liza again looked up at him.

"Now even you must see, Fedor Ivanovich, that happiness does not depend upon ourselves, but upon G.o.d."

"Yes, because you--"

The door of the next room suddenly opened, and Marfa Timofeevna came in, holding her cap in her hand.

"I had trouble enough to find it," she said, standing between Liza and Lavretsky; "I had stuffed it away myself. Dear me, see what old age comes to! But, after all, youth is no better. Well, are you going to Lavriki with your wife?" she added, turning to Fedor Ivanovich.

"To Lavriki with her? I?--I don't know," he added, after a short pause.

"Won't you pay a visit down stairs?"

"Not to-day."

"Well, very good; do as you please. But you, Liza, ought to go down-stairs, I think. Ah! my dears. I've forgotten to give any seed to my bullfinch too. Wait a minute; I will be back directly."

And Marfa Timofeevna ran out of the room without even having put on her cap.

Lavretsky quickly drew near to Liza.

"Liza," he began, with an imploring voice, "we are about to part for ever, and my heart is very heavy. Give me your hand at parting."

Liza raised her head. Her wearied, almost l.u.s.tre less eyes looked at him steadily.

"No," she said, and drew back the hand she had half held out to him.

"No, Lavretsky" (it was the first time that she called him by this name), "I will not give you my hand. Why should I? And now leave me, I beseech you. You know that I love you--Yes, I love you!" she added emphatically. "But no--no;" and she raised her handkerchief to her lips.

"At least, then, give me that handkerchief--"

The door creaked. The handkerchief glided down to Liza's knees.

Lavretsky seized it before it had time to fall on the floor, and quickly hid it away in his pocket; then, as he turned round, he encountered the glance of Marfa Timofeevna's eyes.

"Lizochka, I think your mother is calling you," said the old lady.

Liza immediately got up from her chair, and left the room.

Marfa Timofeevna sat down again in her corner, Lavretsky was going to take leave of her.

"Fedia," she said, abruptly.

"What, Aunt?"

"Are you an honorable man?"

"What?"

"I ask you--Are you an honorable man?"

"I hope so."

"Hm! Well, then, give me your word that you are going to behave like an honorable man."

"Certainly. But why do you ask that?"

"I know why, perfectly well. And so do you, too, my good friend.[A] As you are no fool, you will understand why I ask you this, if you will only think over it a little. But now, good-bye, my dear. Thank you for coming to see me; but remember what I have said, Fedia; and now give me a kiss. Ah, my dear, your burden is heavy to bear, I know that. But no one finds his a light one. There was a time when I used to envy the flies. There are creatures, I thought, who live happily in the world.

But one night I heard a fly singing out under a spider's claws. So, thought I, even they have their troubles. What can be done, Fedia?

But mind you never forget what you have said to me. And now leave me--leave me."

[Footnote A: Literally, "my foster father," or "my benefactor."]

Lavretsky left by the back door, and had almost reached the street, when a footman ran after him and said, "Maria Dmitrievna told me to ask you to come to her."

"Tell her I cannot come just now," began Lavretsky.

"She told me to ask you particularly," continued the footman. "She told me to say that she was alone."

"Then her visitors have gone away?" asked Lavretsky.

"Yes," replied the footman, with something like a grin on his face.

Lavretsky shrugged his shoulders, and followed him into the house.

XLI.

Maria Dmitrievna was alone in her boudoir. She was sitting in a large easy-chair, sniffing Eau-de-Cologne, with a little table by her side, on which was a gla.s.s containing orange-flower water. She was evidently excited, and seemed nervous about something.

Lavretsky came into the room.