"Exactly. And is he a nice man?"

Liza laughed, and cast a quick glance at Feodor Ivanitch.

"What a strange question!"--she exclaimed, drawing up her hook, and flinging it far out again.

"Why is it strange?--I am asking you about him as a man who has recently come hither, as your relative."

"As a relative?"

"Yes. I believe I am a sort of uncle to you."

"Vladimir Nikolaitch has a kind heart,"--said Liza:--"he is clever; mamma is very fond of him."

"And do you like him?"

"He is a nice man: why should not I like him?"

"Ah!"--said Lavretzky, and relapsed into silence. A half-mournful, half-sneering expression flitted across his face. His tenacious gaze discomfited Liza, but she continued to smile. "Well, G.o.d grant them happiness!"--he muttered, at last, as though to himself, and turned away his head.

Liza blushed.

"You are mistaken, Feodor Ivanitch,"--she said:--"there is no cause for your thinking.... But do not you like Vladimir Nikolaitch?"

"I do not."

"Why?"

"It seems to me, that he has no heart."

The smile vanished from Liza's face.

"You have become accustomed to judge people harshly,"--she said, after a long silence.

"I think not. What right have I to judge others harshly, when I myself stand in need of indulgence? Or have you forgotten that a lazy man is the only one who does not laugh at me?... Well,"--he added:--"and have you kept your promise?"

"What promise?"

"Have you prayed for me?"

"Yes, I have prayed, and I do pray for you every day. But please do not speak lightly of that."

Lavretzky began to a.s.sure Liza, that such a thing had never entered his head, that he entertained a profound respect for all convictions; then he entered upon a discussion of religion, its significance in the history of mankind, the significance of Christianity....

"One must be a Christian,"--said Liza, not without a certain effort:--"not in order to understand heavenly things ... yonder ...

earthly things, but because every man must die."

Lavretzky, with involuntary surprise, raised his eyes to Liza's, and encountered her glance.

"What a word you have uttered!"--said he.

"The word is not mine,"--she replied.

"It is not yours.... But why do you speak of death?"

"I do not know. I often think about it."

"Often?"

"Yes."

"One would not say so, to look at you now: you have such a merry, bright face, you are smiling...."

"Yes, I am very merry now,"--returned Liza ingenuously.

Lavretzky felt like seizing both her hands, and clasping them tightly.

"Liza, Liza!"--called Marya Dmitrievna,--"come hither, look! What a carp I have caught!"

"Immediately, _maman_,"--replied Liza, and went to her, but Lavretzky remained on his willow-tree.

"I talk with her as though I were not a man whose life is finished," he said to himself. As she departed, Liza had hung her hat on a bough; with a strange, almost tender sentiment, Lavretzky gazed at the hat, at its long, rather crumpled ribbons. Liza speedily returned to him, and again took up her stand on the raft.

"Why do you think that Vladimir Nikolaitch has no heart?"--she inquired, a few moments later.

"I have already told you, that I may be mistaken; however, time will show."

Liza became thoughtful. Lavretzky began to talk about his manner of life at Vasilievskoe, about Mikhalevitch, about Anton; he felt impelled to talk to Liza, to communicate to her everything that occurred to his soul: she was so charming, she listened to him so attentively; her infrequent comments and replies seemed to him so simple and wise. He even told her so.

Liza was amazed.

"Really?"--she said;--"why, I have always thought that I, like my maid Nastya, had no words of my own. One day she said to her betrothed: 'Thou must find it tiresome with me; thou always sayest such fine things to me, but I have no words of my own.'"

"And thank G.o.d for that!" thought Lavretzky.

XXVII

In the meantime, evening drew on, and Marya Dmitrievna expressed a desire to return home. The little girls were, with difficulty, torn away from the pond, and made ready. Lavretzky announced his intention to escort his guests half way, and ordered his horse to be saddled. As he seated Marya Dmitrievna in the carriage, he remembered Lemm; but the old man was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared as soon as the angling was over. Anton slammed to the carriage door, with a strength remarkable for his years, and grimly shouted: "Drive on, coachman!" The carriage rolled off. On the back seat sat Marya Dmitrievna and Liza; on the front seat, the little girls and the maid. The evening was warm and still, and the windows were lowered on both sides. Lavretzky rode at a trot by Liza's side of the carriage, with his hand resting on the door,--he had dropped the reins on the neck of his steed, which was trotting smoothly,--and from time to time exchanged a few words with the young girl. The sunset glow vanished; night descended, and the air grew even warmer. Marya Dmitrievna soon fell into a doze; the little girls and the maid also dropped off to sleep. The carriage rolled swiftly and smoothly onward; Liza leaned forward; the moon, which had just risen, shone on her face, the fragrant night breeze blew on her cheeks and neck.

She felt at ease. Her hand lay on the door of the carriage, alongside of Lavretzky's hand. And he, also, felt at ease: he was being borne along through the tranquil nocturnal warmth, never taking his eyes from the kind young face, listening to the youthful voice, which was ringing even in a whisper, saying simple, kindly things; he did not even notice that he had pa.s.sed the half-way point. He did not wish to awaken Marya Dmitrievna, pressed Liza's hand lightly, and said:--"We are friends, now, are we not?" She nodded, he drew up his horse. The carriage rolled on, gently swaying and lurching: Lavretzky proceeded homeward at a footpace. The witchery of the summer night took possession of him; everything around him seemed so unexpectedly strange, and, at the same time, so long, so sweetly familiar; far and near,--and things were visible at a long distance, although the eye did not comprehend much of what it beheld,--everything was at rest; young, blossoming life made itself felt in that very repose. Lavretzky's horse walked briskly, swaying regularly to right and left; its huge black shadow kept pace alongside; there was something mysteriously pleasant in the tramp of its hoofs, something cheerful and wondrous in the resounding call of the quail. The stars were hidden in a sort of brilliant smoke; the moon, not yet at the full, shone with a steady gleam; its light flooded the blue sky in streams, and fell like a stain of smoky gold upon the thin cloudlets which floated past; the crispness of the air called forth a slight moisture in the eyes, caressingly enveloped all the limbs, poured in an abundant flood into the breast. Lavretzky enjoyed himself, and rejoiced at his enjoyment. "Come, life is still before us," he thought:--"it has not been completely ruined yet by...." He did not finish his sentence, and say who or what had ruined it.... Then he began to think of Liza, that it was hardly likely that she loved Panshin; that had he met her under different circ.u.mstances,--G.o.d knows what might have come of it; that he understood Lemm, although she had no "words of her own." Yes, but that was not true: she had words of her own.... "Do not speak lightly of that," recurred to Lavretzky's memory. He rode for a long time, with drooping head, then he straightened himself up, and slowly recited:

"And I have burned all that I worshipped, I have worshipped all that I burned...."

but immediately gave his horse a cut with the whip, and rode at a gallop all the rest of the way home.

As he alighted from his horse, he cast a last glance around him, with an involuntary, grateful smile. Night, the speechless, caressing night, lay upon the hills and in the valleys; from afar, from its fragrant depths, G.o.d knows whence,--whether from heaven or earth,--emanated a soft, quiet warmth. Lavretzky wafted a last salutation to Liza, and ran up the steps.