Liza had written to LavrÉtzky on the day before, that he was to come to their house in the evening; but he first went up to his own quarters. He did not find either his wife or his daughter at home; from the servants he learned that she had gone with her to the KalÍtins'. This news both startled and enraged him. "Evidently, VarvÁra PÁvlovna is determined not to give me a chance to live,"—he thought, with the excitement of wrath in his heart. He began to stride to and fro, incessantly thrusting aside with his feet and hands the child's toys, the books, and the feminine appurtenances which came in his way; he summoned Justine, and ordered her to remove all that "rubbish."—"Oui, monsieur,"—said she, with a grimace, and began to put the room in order, gracefully bending, and giving LavrÉtzky to understand, by every movement, that she regarded him as an unlicked bear. With hatred he watched her worn but still "piquant," sneering, Parisian face, her white cuffs, her silken apron, and light cap. He sent her away, at last, and after long wavering (VarvÁra PÁvlovna still did not return) he made up his mind to betake himself to the KalÍtins',—not to MÁrya DmÍtrievna—(not, on any account, would he have entered her drawing-room, that drawing-room where his wife was), but to MÁrfa TimofÉevna; he remembered that a rear staircase from the maids' entrance led straight to her rooms. This is what LavrÉtzky did. Chance favoured him: in the yard he met SchÚrotchka; she conducted him to MÁrfa TimofÉevna. He found her, contrary to her wont, alone; she was sitting in a corner, with hair uncovered, bowed over, with her hands clasped in her lap. On perceiving LavrÉtzky, the old woman was greatly alarmed, rose briskly to her feet, and began to walk hither and yon in the room, as though in search of her cap.

"Ah, here thou art, here thou art,"—she began, avoiding his gaze, and bustling about—"well, how do you do? Come, what now? What is to be done? Where wert thou yesterday? Well, she has come,—well, yes. Well, we must just ... somehow or other."

LavrÉtzky dropped into a chair.

"Come, sit down, sit down,"—went on the old woman.—"Thou hast come straight up-stairs. Well, yes, of course. What? thou art come to look at me? Thanks."

The old woman was silent for a while; LavrÉtzky did not know what to say to her; but she understood him.

"Liza ... yes, Liza was here just now,"—went on MÁrfa TimofÉevna, tying and untying the cords of her reticule. "She is not quite well. SchÚrotchka, where art thou? Come hither, my mother, why canst thou not sit still? And I have a headache. It must be from that—from the singing and from the music."

"From what singing, aunty?"

"Why, of course, they keep singing—what do you call it?—duets. And always in Italian: tchi-tchi, and tcha-tcha, regular magpies. They begin to drag the notes out, and it's just like tugging at your soul. PÁnshin and that wife of yours. And all that has come about so quickly; already they are on the footing of relatives, they do not stand on ceremony. However, I will say this much: even a dog seeks a refuge; no harm will come to her, so long as people don't turn her out."

"Nevertheless, I must confess that I did not expect this,"—replied LavrÉtzky:—"it must have required great boldness."

"No, my dear soul, that is not boldness; it is calculation. The Lord be with her—I want nothing to do with her! They tell me that thou art sending her to LavrÍki,—is it true?"

"Yes, I am placing that estate at the disposal of VarvÁra PÁvlovna."

"Has she asked for money?"

"Not yet."

"Well, it will not be long before she does. But I have only just taken a good look at thee. Art thou well?"

"Yes."

"SchÚrotchka,"—suddenly cried MÁrfa TimofÉevna:—"go, and tell LizavÉta MikhaÍlovna—that is to say, no, ask her ... she's down-stairs, isn't she?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, yes; then ask her: 'Where did she put my book?' She knows."

"I obey, ma'am."

Again the old woman began to bustle about, and to open the drawers of her commode. LavrÉtzky sat motionless on his chair.

Suddenly light footsteps became audible on the stairs—and Liza entered. LavrÉtzky rose to his feet, and bowed; Liza halted by the door.

"Liza, LÍzotchka,"—said MÁrfa TimofÉevna hastily;—"where is my book, where didst thou put my book?"

"What book, aunty?"

"Why, my book; good heavens! However, I did not call thee.... Well, it makes no difference. What are you doing there—down-stairs? See here, FeÓdor IvÁnitch has come.—How is thy head?"

"It is all right."

"Thou art always saying: 'It is all right.' What's going on with you down-stairs,—music again?"

"No—they are playing cards."

"Yes, of course, she is up to everything. SchÚrotchka, I perceive that thou wishest to have a run in the garden. Go along."

"Why, no, MÁrfa TimofÉevna...."

"Don't argue, if you please. Go! NastÁsya KÁrpovna has gone into the garden alone: stay with her. Respect the old woman."—SchÚrotchka left the room.—"Why, where is my cap? Really, now, where has it got to?"

"Pray let me look for it,"—said Liza.

"Sit down, sit down; my own legs haven't given out yet. I must have left it yonder, in my bedroom."

And, casting a sidelong glance at LavrÉtzky, MÁrfa TimofÉevna left the room. She was on the point of leaving the door open, but suddenly turned round toward it, and shut it.

Liza leaned against the back of her chair, and gently lifted her hands to her face; LavrÉtzky remained standing, as he was.

"This is how we were to meet again,"—he said, at last.

Liza took her hands from her face.

"Yes,"—she said dully:—"we were promptly punished."

"Punished?"—said LavrÉtzky. "But what were you punished for?"

Liza raised her eyes to him. They expressed neither grief nor anxiety: they looked smaller and dimmer. Her face was pale; her slightly parted lips had also grown pale.

LavrÉtzky's heart shuddered with pity and with love.

"You wrote to me: 'All is at an end,'"—he whispered:—"Yes, all is at an end—before it has begun."

"We must forget all that,"—said Liza:—"I am glad that you came; I wanted to write to you, but it is better thus. Only, we must make use, as promptly as possible, of these minutes. It remains for both of us to do our duty. You, FeÓdor IvÁnitch, ought to become reconciled to your wife."

"Liza!"

"I implore you to do it; in that way alone can we expiate ... everything which has taken place. Think it over—and you will not refuse me."

"Liza, for God's sake,—you are demanding the impossible. I am ready to do everything you command; but become reconciled to her now!... I agree to everything, I have forgotten everything; but I cannot force my heart to.... Have mercy, this is cruel!"

"I do not require from you ... what you think; do not live with her, if you cannot; but become reconciled,"—replied Liza, and again raised her hand to her eyes.—"Remember your little daughter; do this for me."

"Very well,"—said LavrÉtzky, through his teeth:—"I will do it; let us assume that thereby I am fulfilling my duty. Well, and you—in what does your duty consist?"

"I know what it is."

LavrÉtzky suddenly started.

"Surely, you are not preparing to marry PÁnshin?"—he asked.

Liza smiled almost imperceptibly.

"Oh, no!"—she said.

"Akh, Liza, Liza!"—cried LavrÉtzky:—"how happy we might have been!"

Again Liza glanced at him.

"Now you see yourself, FeÓdor IvÁnitch, that happiness does not depend upon us, but upon God."

"Yes, because you...."

The door of the adjoining room opened swiftly, and MÁrfa TimofÉevna entered, with her cap in her hand.

"I have found it at last,"—she said, taking up her stand between LavrÉtzky and Liza.—"I had mislaid it myself. That's what it is to be old, alack! However, youth is no better. Well, and art thou going to LavrÍki thyself, with thy wife?"—she added, addressing FeÓdor IvÁnitch.

"With her, to LavrÍki?—I do not know,"—he said, after a pause.

"Thou art not going down-stairs?"

"Not to-day."

"Well, very good, as it pleases thee; but I think thou shouldst go down-stairs, Liza. Akh, gracious goodness!—and I have forgotten to give the bullfinch his food. Just wait, I'll be back directly...."

And MÁrfa TimofÉevna ran out of the room, without putting on her cap.

LavrÉtzky went quickly up to Liza.

"Liza,"—he began in a beseeching voice:—"we are parting forever, my heart is breaking,—give me your hand in farewell."

Liza raised her head. Her weary, almost extinct gaze rested on him....

"No,"—she said, and drew back the hand which she had already put forward—"no. LavrÉtzky"—(she called him thus, for the first time)—"I will not give you my hand. To what end? Go away, I entreat you. You know that I love you,"—she added, with an effort:—"but no ... no."

And she raised her handkerchief to her eyes.

The door creaked.... The handkerchief slipped off Liza's knees. LavrÉtzky caught it before it fell to the floor, hastily thrust it into his side pocket, and, turning round, his eyes met those of MÁrfa TimofÉevna.

"LÍzotchka, I think thy mother is calling thee,"—remarked the old woman.

Liza immediately rose, and left the room.

MÁrfa TimofÉevna sat down again in her corner. LavrÉtzky began to take leave of her.

"FÉdya,"—she suddenly said.

"What, aunty?"

"Art thou an honourable man?"

"What?"

"I ask thee: art thou an honourable man?"

"I hope so."

"H'm. But give me thy word of honour that thou art an honourable man."

"Certainly.—But why?"

"I know why. Yes, and thou also, my benefactor, if thou wilt think it over well,—for thou art not stupid,—wilt understand thyself why I ask this of thee. And now, farewell, my dear. Thanks for thy visit; and remember the word that has been spoken, FÉdya, and kiss me. Okh, my soul, it is hard for thee, I know: but then, life is not easy for any one. That is why I used to envy the flies; here, I thought, is something that finds life good; but once, in the night, I heard a fly grieving in the claws of a spider,—no, I thought, a thundercloud hangs over them also. What is to be done, FÉdya? but remember thy word, nevertheless.—Go."

LavrÉtzky emerged from the back entrance, and was already approaching the gate ... when a lackey overtook him.

"MÁrya DmÍtrievna ordered me to ask you to be so good as to come to her,"—he announced to LavrÉtzky.

"Say to her, my good fellow, that I cannot at present ..." began FeÓdor IvÁnitch.

"She ordered me to entreat you urgently,"—went on the lackey:—"she ordered me to say, that she is at home."

"But have the visitors gone?"—asked LavrÉtzky.

"Yes, sir,"—returned the lackey, and grinned.

LavrÉtzky shrugged his shoulders, and followed him.