Two days later, MÁrya DmÍtrievna arrived with all her young people at VasÍlievskoe, in accordance with her promise. The little girls immediately ran out into the garden, while MÁrya DmÍtrievna languidly traversed the rooms, and languidly praised everything. Her visit to LavrÉtzky she regarded as a token of great condescension, almost in the light of a good deed. She smiled affably when AntÓn and ApraxyÉya, after the ancient custom of house-serfs, came to kiss her hand,—and in an enervated voice, through her nose, she asked them to give her some tea. To the great vexation of AntÓn, who had donned white knitted gloves, the newly-arrived lady was served with tea not by him, but by LavrÉtzky's hired valet, who, according to the assertion of the old man, knew nothing whatever about proper forms. On the other hand, AntÓn reasserted his rights at dinner: firm as a post he stood behind MÁrya DmÍtrievna's chair—and yielded his place to no one. The long-unprecedented arrival of visitors at VasÍlievskoe both agitated and rejoiced the old man: it pleased him to see, that his master knew nice people. However, he was not the only one who was excited on that day: Lemm, also, was excited. He put on a short, snuff-coloured frock-coat, with a sharp-pointed collar, bound his neckerchief tightly, and incessantly coughed and stepped aside, with an agreeable and courteous mien. LavrÉtzky noted, with satisfaction, that the close relations between himself and Liza still continued: no sooner did she enter, than she offered him her hand, in friendly wise. After dinner, Lemm drew forth, from the back pocket of his coat, into which he had been constantly thrusting his hand, a small roll of music, and pursing up his lips, he silently laid it on the piano. It was a romance, which he had composed on the preceding day to old-fashioned German words, in which the stars were alluded to. Liza immediately seated herself at the piano and began to decipher the romance.... Alas, the music turned out to be complicated, and disagreeably strained; it was obvious that the composer had attempted to express some passionate, profound sentiment, but nothing had come of it: so the attempt remained merely an attempt. LavrÉtzky and Liza both felt this,—and Lemm understood it: he said not a word, put his romance back in his pocket, and in reply to Liza's proposal to play it over again, he merely said significantly, with a shake of his head: "Enough—for the present!"—bent his shoulders, shrank together, and left the room.

Toward evening, they all went fishing together. The pond beyond the garden contained a quantity of carp and loach. They placed MÁrya DmÍtrievna in an arm-chair near the bank, in the shade, spread a rug under her feet, and gave her the best hook; AntÓn, in the quality of an old and expert fisherman, offered his services. He assiduously spitted worms on the hook, slapped them down with his hand, spat on them, and even himself flung the line and hook, bending forward with his whole body. That same day, MÁrya DmÍtrievna expressed herself to FeÓdor IvÁnitch, with regard to him, in the following phrase, in the French language of girls' institutes: "Il n'y a plus maintenant de ces gens comme Ça comme autrefois." Lemm, with the two little girls, went further away, to the dam; LavrÉtzky placed himself beside Liza. The fish bit incessantly, the carp which were caught were constantly flashing their sides, now gold, now silver, in the air; the joyous exclamations of the little girls were unceasing; MÁrya DmÍtrievna herself gave vent to a couple of shrill, feminine shrieks. LavrÉtzky and Liza caught fewer than the others; this, probably, resulted from the fact that they paid less attention than the rest to their fishing, and allowed their floats to drift close inshore. The tall, reddish reeds rustled softly around them, in front of them the motionless water gleamed softly, and their conversation was soft also. Liza stood on a small raft; LavrÉtzky sat on the inclined trunk of a willow; Liza wore a white gown, girt about the waist with a broad ribbon, also white in hue; her straw hat was hanging from one hand, with the other, she supported, with some effort, the curved fishing-rod. LavrÉtzky gazed at the pure, rather severe profile, at her hair tucked behind her ears, at her soft cheeks, which were as sunburned as those of a child,—and said to himself: "O how charmingly thou standest on my pond!" Liza did not turn toward him, but stared at the water,—and half smiled, half screwed up her eyes. The shadow of a linden-tree near at hand fell upon both of them.

"Do you know,"—began LavrÉtzky:—"I have been thinking a great deal about my last conversation with you, and have come to the conclusion, that you are extraordinarily kind."

"I did not mean it in that way at all ..." Liza began,—and was overcome with shame.

"You are kind,"—repeated LavrÉtzky. "I am a rough man, but I feel that every one must love you. There's Lemm now, for example: he is simply in love with you."

Liza's brows quivered, rather than contracted; this always happened with her when she heard something disagreeable.

"I felt very sorry for him to-day,"—LavrÉtzky resumed:—"with his unsuccessful romance. To be young, and be able to do a thing—that can be borne; but to grow old, and not have the power—is painful. And the offensive thing about it is, that you are not conscious when your powers begin to wane. It is difficult for an old man to endure these shocks!... Look out, the fish are biting at your hook.... They say,"—added LavrÉtzky, after a brief pause,—"that VladÍmir NikolÁitch has written a very pretty romance."

"Yes,"—replied Liza;—"it is a trifle, but it is not bad."

"And what is your opinion,"—asked LavrÉtzky:—"is he a good musician?"

"It seems to me that he has great talent for music; but up to the present time he has not cultivated it as he should."

"Exactly. And is he a nice man?"

Liza laughed, and cast a quick glance at FeÓdor IvÁnitch.

"What a strange question!"—she exclaimed, drawing up her hook, and flinging it far out again.

"Why is it strange?—I am asking you about him as a man who has recently come hither, as your relative."

"As a relative?"

"Yes. I believe I am a sort of uncle to you."

"VladÍmir NikolÁitch has a kind heart,"—said Liza:—"he is clever; mamma is very fond of him."

"And do you like him?"

"He is a nice man: why should not I like him?"

"Ah!"—said LavrÉtzky, and relapsed into silence. A half-mournful, half-sneering expression flitted across his face. His tenacious gaze discomfited Liza, but she continued to smile. "Well, God grant them happiness!"—he muttered, at last, as though to himself, and turned away his head.

Liza blushed.

"You are mistaken, FeÓdor IvÁnitch,"—she said:—"there is no cause for your thinking.... But do not you like VladÍmir NikolÁitch?"

"I do not."

"Why?"

"It seems to me, that he has no heart."

The smile vanished from Liza's face.

"You have become accustomed to judge people harshly,"—she said, after a long silence.

"I think not. What right have I to judge others harshly, when I myself stand in need of indulgence? Or have you forgotten that a lazy man is the only one who does not laugh at me?... Well,"—he added:—"and have you kept your promise?"

"What promise?"

"Have you prayed for me?"

"Yes, I have prayed, and I do pray for you every day. But please do not speak lightly of that."

LavrÉtzky began to assure Liza, that such a thing had never entered his head, that he entertained a profound respect for all convictions; then he entered upon a discussion of religion, its significance in the history of mankind, the significance of Christianity....

"One must be a Christian,"—said Liza, not without a certain effort:—"not in order to understand heavenly things ... yonder ... earthly things, but because every man must die."

LavrÉtzky, with involuntary surprise, raised his eyes to Liza's, and encountered her glance.

"What a word you have uttered!"—said he.

"The word is not mine,"—she replied.

"It is not yours.... But why do you speak of death?"

"I do not know. I often think about it."

"Often?"

"Yes."

"One would not say so, to look at you now: you have such a merry, bright face, you are smiling...."

"Yes, I am very merry now,"—returned Liza ingenuously.

LavrÉtzky felt like seizing both her hands, and clasping them tightly.

"Liza, Liza!"—called MÁrya DmÍtrievna,—"come hither, look! What a carp I have caught!"

"Immediately, maman,"—replied Liza, and went to her, but LavrÉtzky remained on his willow-tree.

"I talk with her as though I were not a man whose life is finished," he said to himself. As she departed, Liza had hung her hat on a bough; with a strange, almost tender sentiment, LavrÉtzky gazed at the hat, at its long, rather crumpled ribbons. Liza speedily returned to him, and again took up her stand on the raft.

"Why do you think that VladÍmir NikolÁitch has no heart?"—she inquired, a few moments later.

"I have already told you, that I may be mistaken; however, time will show."

Liza became thoughtful. LavrÉtzky began to talk about his manner of life at VasÍlievskoe, about MikhalÉvitch, about AntÓn; he felt impelled to talk to Liza, to communicate to her everything that occurred to his soul: she was so charming, she listened to him so attentively; her infrequent comments and replies seemed to him so simple and wise. He even told her so.

Liza was amazed.

"Really?"—she said;—"why, I have always thought that I, like my maid NÁstya, had no words of my own. One day she said to her betrothed: 'Thou must find it tiresome with me; thou always sayest such fine things to me, but I have no words of my own.'"

"And thank God for that!" thought LavrÉtzky.