Lemm uttered the whole of this speech fluently, and
with animation, walking backwards and forwards with
short steps in front of the tea-table, his eyes running
along the ground meanwhile.
“Dearest Maestro!” suddenly exclaimed
Lavretsky, “I think you are in love with my
cousin yourself.”
Lemm suddenly stopped short.
“Please do not jest with me in that way,”
he began, with faltering voice. “I am not
out of my mind. I look forward to the dark grave,
and not to a rosy future.”
Lavretsky felt sorry for the old man, and begged his
pardon. After breakfast Lemm played his cantata,
and after dinner, at Lavretsky’s own instigation,
he again began to talk about Liza. Lavretsky listened
to him attentively and with curiosity.
“What do you say to this, Christopher Fedorovitch?”
he said at last. “Every thing seems in
order here now, and the garden is in full bloom.
Why shouldn’t I invite her to come here for the
day, with her mother and my old aunt—eh?
Will that be agreeable to you?”
Lemm bowed his head over his plate.
“Invite her,” he said, in a scarcely audible
voice.
“But we needn’t ask Panshine.”
“No, we needn’t,” answered the old
man, with an almost childlike smile.
Two days later Lavretsky went into town and to the
Kalatines’.
He found them all at home, but he did not tell them
of his plan immediately. He wanted to speak to
Liza alone first. Chance favored him, and he
was left alone with her in the drawing-room. They
began to talk. As a general rule she was never
shy with any one, and by this time she had succeeded
in becoming accustomed to him. He listened to
what she said, and as he looked at her face, he musingly
repeated Lemm’s words, and agreed with him.
It sometimes happens that two persons who are already
acquainted with each other, but not intimately, after
the lapse of a few minutes suddenly become familiar
friends—and the consciousness of this familiarity
immediately expresses itself in their looks, in their
gentle and kindly smiles, in their gestures themselves.
And this happened now with Lavretsky and Liza.
“Ah, so that’s what’s you’re
like!” thought she, looking at him with friendly
eyes. “Ah, so that’s what’s
you’re like!” thought he also; and therefore
he was not much surprised when she informed him, not
without some little hesitation, that she had long wanted
to say something to him, but that she was afraid of
vexing him.
“Don’t be afraid, speak out,” he
said, standing still in front of her.
Liza raised her clear eyes to his.
“You are so good,” she began—and
at the same time she thought, “yes, he is really
good”—“I hope you will forgive
me. I scarcely ought to have ventured to speak
to you about it—but how could you—why
did you separate from your wife?”
Lavretsky shuddered, then looked at Liza, and sat
down by her side.
