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.
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,
