The next day was Sunday. The chiming of the bells for the early Liturgy did not awaken LavrÉtzky—he had not closed an eye all night long—but it did remind him of another Sunday, when, at the wish of Liza, he had gone to church. He hastily rose; a certain secret voice told him that he would see her there again to-day. He noiselessly quitted the house, ordered VarvÁra PÁvlovna to be informed that he would return to dinner, and with great strides wended his way thither, whither the monotonously-mournful chiming summoned him. He arrived early: there was hardly any one in the church; a chanter in the choir was reading the Hours; his voice, occasionally broken by a cough, boomed on in measured cadence, now rising, now falling. LavrÉtzky took up his stand not far from the entrance. The prayerfully inclined arrived one by one, paused, crossed themselves, bowed on all sides;[13] their footsteps resounded in the emptiness and silence, distinctly re-echoing from the arches overhead. A decrepit little old woman, in an ancient hooded cloak, knelt down beside LavrÉtzky, and began to pray assiduously; her yellow, toothless, wrinkled face expressed intense emotion; her red eyes gazed fixedly upward at the holy picture on the ikonostÁsis; her bony hand kept incessantly emerging from under her cloak, and slowly but vigorously made a great, sweeping sign of the cross. A peasant, with a thick beard and a surly face, tousled and dishevelled, entered the church, went down at once on both knees, and immediately set to crossing himself, hastily flinging back his head and shaking it after every prostration. Such bitter woe was depicted on his countenance, and in all his movements, that LavrÉtzky made up his mind to approach and ask him what was the matter. The peasant started back timidly and roughly, and looked at him.... "My son is dead,"—he said, in hasty accents—and again began to prostrate himself to the floor. "What can take the place, for them, of the consolation of the church?"—LavrÉtzky thought,—and tried to pray himself; but his heart had grown heavy and hard, and his thoughts were far away. He was still expecting Liza—but Liza did not come. The church began to fill with people; still she did not come. The Liturgy began, the deacon had already read the Gospel, the bell had pealed for the hymn "Worthy";[14] LavrÉtzky moved a little,—and suddenly caught sight of Liza. She had arrived before him, but he had not descried her; crowded into the space between the wall and the choir, she neither glanced around nor moved. LavrÉtzky did not take his eyes from her until the very end of the Liturgy: he was bidding her farewell. The congregation began to disperse, but she still stood on; she seemed to be awaiting LavrÉtzky's departure. At last, she crossed herself for the last time, and went away, without looking round; she had only a maid with her. LavrÉtzky followed her out of the church, and overtook her in the street; she was walking very rapidly, with her head bowed and her veil lowered over her face.

"Good morning, LizavÉta MikhaÍlovna,"—said he, loudly, with forced ease:—"may I accompany you?"

She said nothing; he walked along by her side.

"Are you satisfied with me?"—he asked her, lowering his voice.—"You have heard what took place last night?"

"Yes, yes,"—she said in a whisper:—"you did well."

And she walked on faster than ever.

"You are satisfied?"

Liza only nodded her head.

"FeÓdor IvÁnitch,"—she began, in a composed, but weak voice:—"I have wanted to ask you: do not come to our house again; go away as speedily as possible; we can see each other later on,—sometime, a year hence. But now, do this for me; comply with my request, for God's sake."

"I am ready to obey you in all things, LizavÉta MikhaÍlovna; but is it possible that we are to part thus? will you not say a single word to me?"

"FeÓdor IvÁnitch, here you are now, walking by my side. But you are already far away from me. And not you alone, but also...."

"Finish, I entreat you!"—exclaimed LavrÉtzky:—"what is it that you mean to say?"

"You will hear, perhaps ... but whatever happens, forget ... no, do not forget me,—remember me."

"I forget you!..."

"Enough; farewell. Do not follow me."

"Liza ..."—LavrÉtzky was beginning.

"Farewell, farewell!"—she repeated, dropped her veil still lower, and advanced almost at a run.

LavrÉtzky gazed after her, and dropping his head, went back down the street. He hit upon Lemm, who was also walking along, with his hat pulled down on his nose, and staring at the ground under his feet.

They stared at each other in silence.

"Well, what have you to say?"—said LavrÉtzky at last.

"What have I to say?"—returned Lemm surlily:—"I have nothing to say. Everything is dead, and we are dead. (Alles ist todt und wir sind todt.) You are going to the right, I think?"

"Yes."

"Then I go to the left. Good-bye."

On the following morning, FeÓdor IvÁnitch and his wife set out for LavrÍki. She drove in front, in the carriage, with Ada and Justine; he came behind, in his tarantÁs. The pretty little girl never quitted the carriage-window during the whole journey; she was surprised at everything: at the peasants, the peasant women, the wells, the shaft-arches, the carriage-bells, at the multitude of jackdaws; Justine shared her surprise. VarvÁra PÁvlovna laughed at their comments and exclamations.... She was in high spirits; before their departure from the town of O*** she had had an explanation with her husband.

"I understand your position,"—she had said to him,—and he, from the expression of her clever eyes, was able to conclude that she did fully understand his position,—"but you must do me the justice, at least, to say that I am easy to live with; I shall not obtrude myself upon you, embarrass you; I wanted to assure Ada's future. I need nothing further."

"Yes, and you have attained your object,"—said FeÓdor IvÁnitch.

"My sole idea now is to shut myself up in the wilds; I shall forever remember your good deed in my prayers...."

"Faugh!... enough of that,"—he interrupted her.

"And I shall know how to respect your independence, and your repose,"—she completed her phrase, which she had prepared in advance.

LavrÉtzky had made her a low bow. VarvÁra PÁvlovna understood that her husband, in his soul, was grateful to her.

On the second day, toward the evening, they reached LavrÍki; a week later, LavrÉtzky set off for Moscow, leaving his wife five thousand rubles for her expenses—and the day after LavrÉtzky's departure, PÁnshin, whom VarvÁra PÁvlovna had begged not to forget her in her isolation, made his appearance. She gave him the warmest sort of a welcome, and until late into the night the lofty rooms of the house and the very garden rang with the sounds of music, singing, and merry French speeches. PÁnshin visited VarvÁra PÁvlovna for three days; when he took leave of her, and warmly pressed her beautiful hands, he promised to return very soon—and he kept his promise.

---

---