MÁrya DmÍtrievna did not receive LavrÉtzky with any excess of cordiality, when he presented himself on the following day. "Well, you are making yourself pretty free of the house,"—she said to herself. Personally, he did not greatly please her, and, in addition, PÁnshin, under whose influence she was, had sung his praises in a very sly and careless manner on the preceding evening. As she did not look upon him in the light of a guest, and did not consider it necessary to trouble herself about a relative almost a member of the family, half an hour had not elapsed before he was strolling down an alley in the garden with Liza. LyÉnotchka and SchÚrotchka were frolicking a short distance away, among the flower-beds.

Liza was composed, as usual, but paler than usual. She took from her pocket and handed to LavrÉtzky the sheet of newspaper, folded small.

"This is dreadful!"—said she.

LavrÉtzky made no reply.

"But perhaps it is not yet true,"—added Liza.

"That is why I asked you not to mention it to any one."

Liza walked on a little way.

"Tell me,"—she began:—"you are not grieved? Not in the least?"

"I do not know myself what my feelings are,"—replied LavrÉtzky.

"But, assuredly, you used to love her?"

"Yes, I did."

"Very much?"

"Very much."

"And you are not grieved by her death?"

"It is not now that she has died to me."

"What you say is sinful.... Do not be angry with me. You call me your friend: a friend may say anything. To tell the truth, I feel terrified.... Your face was so malign yesterday.... Do you remember, how you were complaining of her, not long ago?—and perhaps, already, at that very time, she was no longer alive. This is terrible. It is exactly as though it had been sent to you as a chastisement."

LavrÉtzky laughed bitterly.

"Do you think so?... At all events, I am free now."

Liza gave a slight start.

"Stop, do not talk like that. Of what use to you is your freedom? You must not think about that now, but about forgiveness...."

"I forgave her long ago,"—interrupted LavrÉtzky, with a wave of the hand.

"No, not that,"—returned Liza, and blushed. "You did not understand me rightly. You must take means to obtain forgiveness...."

"Who is there to forgive me?"

"Who?—God. Who else but God can forgive us?"

LavrÉtzky caught her hand.

"Akh, LizavÉta MikhaÍlovna, believe me,"—he exclaimed:—"I have been sufficiently punished as it is. I have already atoned for everything, believe me."

"You cannot know that,"—said Liza in a low voice. "You have forgotten;—not very long ago,—when you were talking to me,—you were not willing to forgive her...."

The two walked silently down the alley.

"And how about your daughter?"—Liza suddenly inquired, and halted.

LavrÉtzky started.

"Oh, do not worry yourself! I have already despatched letters to all the proper places. The future of my daughter, as you call ... as you say ... is assured. Do not disquiet yourself."

Liza smiled sadly.

"But you are right,"—went on LavrÉtzky:—"what can I do with my freedom? Of what use is it to me?"

"When did you receive that newspaper?"—said Liza, making no reply to his question.

"The day after your visit."

"And is it possible ... is it possible that you did not even weep?"

"No. I was stunned; but where were the tears to come from? Weep over the past,—but, you see, it is entirely extirpated in my case!... Her behaviour itself did not destroy my happiness, but merely proved to me that it had never existed. What was there to cry about? But, who knows?—perhaps I should have been more grieved if I had received this news two weeks earlier...."

"Two weeks?"—returned Liza. "But what has happened in those two weeks?"

LavrÉtzky made no answer, and Liza suddenly blushed more furiously than before.

"Yes, yes, you have guessed it,"—interposed LavrÉtzky:—"in the course of those two weeks I have learned what a pure woman's soul is like, and my past has retreated still further from me."

Liza became confused, and softly walked toward the flower-garden, to LyÉnotchka and SchÚrotchka.

"And I am glad that I have shown you this newspaper,"—said LavrÉtzky, as he followed her:—"I have already contracted the habit of concealing nothing from you, and I hope that you will repay me with the same confidence."

"Do you think so?"—said Liza, and stopped short. "In that case, I ought to ... but no! That is impossible."

"What is it? Speak, speak!"

"Really, it seems to me that I ought not.... However," added Liza, and turned to LavrÉtzky with a smile:—"what is half-frankness worth?—Do you know? I received a letter to-day."

"From PÁnshin?"

"Yes, from him.... How did you know?"

"He asks your hand?"

"Yes,"—uttered Liza, and looked seriously in LavrÉtzky's eyes.

LavrÉtzky, in his turn, gazed seriously at Liza.

"Well, and what reply have you made to him?"—he said at last.

"I do not know what reply to make,"—replied Liza, and dropped her clasped hands.

"What? Surely, you like him?"

"Yes, he pleases me; he seems to be a nice man...."

"You said the same thing to me, in those very same words, three days ago. What I want to know is, whether you love him with that strong, passionate feeling which we are accustomed to call love?"

"As you understand it,—no."

"You are not in love with him?"

"No. But is that necessary?"

"Of course it is!"

"Mamma likes him,"—pursued Liza:—"he is amiable; I have nothing against him."

"Still, you are wavering?"

"Yes ... and perhaps,—your words may be the cause of it. Do you remember what you said day before yesterday? But that weakness...."

"Oh, my child!"—suddenly exclaimed LavrÉtzky—and his voice trembled:—"do not argue artfully, do not designate as weakness the cry of your heart, which does not wish to surrender itself without love. Do not take upon yourself that terrible responsibility toward a man whom you do not love and to whom you do not wish to belong...."

"I am listening,—I am taking nothing upon myself ..." Liza was beginning.

"Listen to your heart; it alone will tell you the truth,"—LavrÉtzky interrupted her.... "Experience, reasoning—all that is stuff and nonsense! Do not deprive yourself of the best, the only happiness on earth."

"Is it you, FeÓdor IvÁnitch, who are speaking thus? You, yourself, married for love—and were you happy?"

LavrÉtzky wrung his hands.

"Akh, do not talk to me of that! You cannot even understand all that a young, untried, absurdly educated lad can mistake for love!... Yes, and in short, why calumniate one's self? I just told you, that I had not known happiness ... no! I was happy!"

"It seems to me, FeÓdor IvÁnitch,"—said Liza, lowering her voice (when she did not agree with her interlocutor, she always lowered her voice; and, at the same time, she became greatly agitated):—"happiness on earth does not depend upon us...."

"It does, it does depend upon us, believe me," (he seized both her hands; Liza turned pale, and gazed at him almost in terror, but with attention):—"if only we have not ruined our own lives. For some people, a love-marriage may prove unhappy; but not for you, with your calm temperament, with your clear soul! I entreat you, do not marry without love, from a sense of duty, of renunciation, or anything else.... That, also, is want of faith, that is calculation,—and even worse. Believe me,—I have a right to speak thus: I have paid dearly for that right. And if your God...."

At that moment, LavrÉtzky noticed that LyÉnotchka and SchÚrotchka were standing beside Liza, and staring at him with dumb amazement. He released Liza's hands, said hastily: "Pray pardon me,"—and walked toward the house.

"I have only one request to make of you,"—he said, returning to Liza:—"do not decide instantly, wait, think over what I have said to you. Even if you have not believed me, if you have made up your mind to a marriage of reason,—even in that case, you ought not to marry Mr. PÁnshin: he cannot be your husband.... Promise me, will you not, not to be in a hurry?"

Liza tried to answer LavrÉtzky, but did not utter a word,—not because she had made up her mind "to be in a hurry"; but because her heart was beating too violently, and a sensation resembling fear had stopped her breath.