on a small raft; Lavretsky sat on the inclined trunk of a willow; Lisa wore a white gown, tied round the waist with a broad ribbon, also white; her straw hat was hanging on one hand, and in the other with some effort she held up the crooked rod. Lavretsky gazed at her pure, somewhat severe profile, at her hair drawn back behind her ears, at her soft cheeks, which glowed like a little child’s, and thought, «Oh, how sweet you are, bending over my pond!» Lisa did not turn to him, but looked at the water, half frowning, to keep the sun out of her eyes, half smiling. The shade of the lime-tree near fell upon both.
«Do you know,» began Lavretsky, «I have been thinking over our last conversation a great deal, and have come to the conclusion that you are exceedingly good.»
«That was not at all my intention in——-» Lisa was beginning to reply, and she was overcome with embarrassment.
«You are good,» repeated Lavretsky. «I am a rough fellow, but I feel that every one must love you. There’s Lemm for instance; he is simply in love with you.»
Lisa’s brows did not exactly frown, they contracted slightly; it always happened with her when she heard something disagreeable to her.
«I was very sorry for him to-day,» Lavretsky added, «with his unsuccessful song. To be young and to fail is bearable; but to be old and not be successful is hard to bear. And how mortifying it is to feel that one’s forces are deserting one! It is hard for an old man to bear such blows!… Be careful, you have a bite…. They say,» added Lavretsky after a short pause, «that Vladimir Nikolaitch has written a very pretty song.»
«Yes,» replied Lisa, «it is only a trifle, but not bad.»
«And what do you think,» inquired Lavretsky; «is he a good musician?»
«I think he has great talent for music; but so far he has not worked at it, as he should.»
«Ah! And is he a good sort of man?»
Lisa laughed and glanced quickly at Fedor Ivanitch.
«What a queer question!» she exclaimed, drawing up her line and throwing it in again further off.
«Why is it queer? I ask you about him, as one who has only lately come here, as a relation.»
«A relation?»
«Yes. I am, it seems, a sort of uncle of yours?»
«Vladimir Nikolaitch has a good heart,» said Lisa, «and he is clever; maman likes him very much.»
«And do you like him?»
«He is nice; why should I not like him?»
«Ah!» Lavretsky uttered and ceased speaking. A half-mournful, half-ironical expression passed over his face. His steadfast gaze embarrassed Lisa, but he went on smiling.—»Well, God grant them happiness!» he muttered at last, as though to himself, and turned away his head.
Lisa flushed.
«You are mistaken, Fedor Ivanitch,» she said: «you are wrong in thinking …. But don’t you like Vladimir Nikolaitch?» she asked suddenly.
«No, I don’t.»
«Why?»
«I think he has no heart.»
The smile left Lisa’s face.
«It is your habit to judge people severely,» she observed after a long silence.
«I don’t think it is. What right have I to judge others severely, do you suppose, when I must ask for indulgency myself? Or have you forgotten that I am a laughing stock to everyone, who is not too indifferent even to scoff?… By the way,» he added, «did you keep your promise?»
«What promise?»
«Did you pray for me?»
«Yes, I prayed for you, and I pray for you every day. But please do not speak lightly of that.»
Lavretsky began to assure Lisa that the idea of doing so had never entered his head, that he had the deepest reverence for every conviction; then he went off into a discourse upon religion, its significance in the history of mankind, the significance of Christianity.
«One must be a Christian,» observed Lisa, not without some effort, «not so as to know the divine… and the… earthly, because every man has to die.»
Lavretsky raised his eyes in involuntary astonishment upon Lisa and met her gaze.
«What a strange saying you have just uttered!» he said.
«It is not my saying,» she replied.
«Not yours…. But what made you speak of death?»
«I don’t know. I often think of it.»
«Often?»
«Yes.»
«One would not suppose so, looking at you now; you have such a bright, happy face, you are smiling.»
«Yes, I am very happy just now,» replied Lisa simply.
Lavretsky would have liked to seize both her hands, and press them warmly.
«Lisa, Lisa!» cried Marya Dmitrievna, «do come here, and look what a fine carp I have caught.»
«In a minute, maman,» replied Lisa, and went towards her, but Lavretsky remained sitting on his willow. «I talk to her just as if life were not over for me,» he thought. As she went away, Lisa hung her hat on a twig; with strange, almost tender emotion, Lavretsky looked at the hat, and its long rather crumpled ribbons. Lisa soon came back to him, and again took her stand on the platform.
«What makes you think Vladimir Nikolaitch has no heart?» she asked a few minutes later.
«I have told you already that I may be mistaken; time will show, however.»
Lisa grew thoughtful. Lavretsky began to tell her about his daily life at Vassilyevskoe, about Mihalevitch, and about Anton; he felt a need to talk to Lisa, to share with her everything that was passing in his heart; she listened so sweetly, so attentively; her few replies and observations seemed to him so simple and so intelligent. He even told her so.
Lisa was surprised.
«Really?» she said; «I thought that I was like my maid, Nastya; I had no words of my own. She said one day to her sweetheart: ‘You must be dull with me; you always talk so finely to me, and I have no words of my own.'»
«And thank God for it!» thought Lavretsky.
Chapter XXVII
Meanwhile the evening had come on, Marya Dmitrievna expressed a desire to return home, and the little girls were with difficulty torn away from the pond, and made ready. Lavretsky declared that he would escort his guests half-way, and ordered his horse to be saddled. As he was handing Marya Dmitrievna into the coach, he bethought himself of Lemm; but the old man could nowhere be found. He had disappeared directly after the angling was over. Anton, with an energy remarkable for his years, slammed the doors, and called sharply, «Go on, coachman!» the coach started. Marya Dmitrievna and Lisa were seated in the back seat; the children and their maid in the front. The evening was warm and still, and the windows were open on both sides. Lavretsky trotted near the coach on the side of Lisa, with his arm leaning on the door—he had thrown the reigns on the neck of his smoothly-pacing horse—and now and then he exchanged a few words with the young girl. The glow of sunset was! disappearing; night came on, but the air seemed to grow even warmer. Marya Dmitrievna was soon slumbering, the little girls and the maid fell asleep also. The coach rolled swiftly and smoothly along; Lisa was bending forward, she felt happy; the rising moon lighted up her face, the fragrant night on breeze breathed on her eyes and cheeks. Her hand rested on the coach door near Lavretsky’s hand. And he was happy; borne along in the still warmth of the night, never taking his eyes off the good young face, listening to the young voice that was melodious even in a whisper, as it spoke of simple, good things, he did not even notice that he had gone more than half-way. He did not want to wake Marya Dmitrievna, he lightly pressed Lisa’s hand and said, «I think we are friends now, aren’t we?» She nodded, he stopped his horse, and the coach rolled away, lightly swaying and oscillating up and down; Lavretsky turned homeward at a walking pace. The witchery of the summer night enfolded him; all around him seemed suddenly so strange—and at the same time so long known; so sweetly familiar. Everywhere near and afar—and one could see in to the far distance, though the eye could not make out clearly much of what was seen—all was at peace; youthful, blossoming life seemed expressed in this deep peace. Lavretsky’s horse stepped out bravely, swaying evenly to right and left; its great black shadow moved along beside it. There was something strangely sweet in the tramp of its hoofs, a strange charm in the ringing cry of the quails. The stars were lost in a bright mist; the moon, not yet at the full, shone with steady brilliance; its light was shot in an azure stream over the sky, and fell in patches of smoky gold on the thin clouds as they drifted near. The freshness of the air drew a slight moisture into the eyes, sweetly folded all the limbs, and flowed freely into the lungs. Lavretsky rejoiced in it, and was glad at his own rejoicing. «Come, we are still alive,» he thought; «we have not been altogether destroyed by»—he did not say—by whom or by what. Then he fell to thinking of Lisa, that she could hardly love Panshin, that if he had met her under different circumstances—God knows what might have come of it; that he undertook Lemm though Lisa had no words of «her own:» but that, he thought, was not true; she had words of her own. «Don’t speak light of that,» came back to Lavretsky’s mind. He rode a long way with his head bent in thought, then drawing himself up, he slowly repeated aloud:
«And I have burnt all I adored,
And now I adore
