seven hundred roubles to gilding the “cumpola”
of the church, and informed them of a sure remedy against
freckles. Lavretsky tried to sit near Lisa, but
her manner was severe, almost stern, and she did not
once glance at him. She appeared intentionally
not to observe him; a kind of cold, grave enthusiasm
seemed to have taken possession of her. Lavretsky
for some reason or other tried to smile and to say
something amusing; but there was perplexity in his
heart, and he went away at last in secret bewilderment
. . .
. He felt there was something in Lisa to
which he could never penetrate.
Another time Lavretsky was sitting in the drawing-room
listening to the sly but tedious gossip of Gedeonovsky,
when suddenly, without himself knowing why, he turned
round and caught a profound, attentive questioning
look in Lisa’s eyes . . . . It was bent
on him, this enigmatic look. Lavretsky thought
of it the whole night long. His love was not
like a boy’s; sighs and agonies were not in his
line, and Lisa herself did not inspire a passion of
that kind; but for every age love has its tortures—and
he was spared none of them.
One day Lavretsky, according to his habit, was at
the Kalitins’. After an exhaustingly hot
day, such a lovely evening had set in that Marya Dmitrievna,
in spite of her aversion to a draught, ordered all
the windows and doors into the garden to be thrown
open, and declared that she would not play cards,
that it was a sin to play cards in such weather, and
one ought to enjoy nature. Panshin was the only
guest. He was stimulated by the beauty of the
evening, and conscious of a flood of artistic sensations,
but he did not care to sing before Lavretsky, so he
fell to reading poetry; he read aloud well, but too
self-consciously and with unnecessary refinements,
a few poems of Lermontov (Pushkin had not then come
into fashion again). Then suddenly, as though
ashamed of his enthusiasm, began, a propos of the
well-known poem, “A Reverie,” to attack
and fall foul of the younger generation. While
doing so he did not lose the opportunity of expounding
how he would change everything! after his own fashion,
if the power were in his hands. “Russia,”
he said, “has fallen behind Europe; we must
catch her up. It is maintained that we are young—that’s
nonsense. Moreover we have no inventiveness:
Homakov himself admits that we have not even invented
mouse-traps. Consequently, whether we will or
no, we must borrow from others. We are sick,
Lermontov says—I agree with him. But
we are sick from having only half become Europeans,
we must take a hair of the dog that bit us ("le cadastre,”
thought Lavretsky). “The best head, les
meilleures tetes,” he continued, “among
us have long been convinced of it. All peoples
are essentially alike; only introduce among them good
institutions, and the thing is done. Of course
there may be adaptation to the existing national life;
