As he was leaving the KalÍtins' house, LavrÉtzky encountered PÁnshin; they saluted each other coldly. LavrÉtzky went home to his apartment, and locked himself in. He experienced a sensation such as he had, in all probability, never experienced before. Had he remained long in that state of "peaceful numbness"? had he long continued to feel, as he had expressed it, "at the bottom of the river"? What had altered his position? what had brought him out, to the surface? the most ordinary, inevitable though always unexpected of events;—death? Yes: but he did not think so much about the death of his wife, about his freedom, as,—what sort of answer would Liza give to PÁnshin? He was conscious that, in the course of the last three days, he had come to look upon her with different eyes; he recalled how, on returning home, and thinking about her in the silence of the night, he had said to himself: "If...." That "if," wherein he had alluded to the past, to the impossible, had come to pass, although not in the way he had anticipated,—but this was little in itself. "She will obey her mother," he thought, "she will marry PÁnshin; but even if she refuses him,—is it not all the same to me?" As he passed in front of the mirror, he cast a cursory glance at his face, and shrugged his shoulders.

The day sped swiftly by in these reflections; evening arrived. LavrÉtzky wended his way to the KalÍtins. He walked briskly, but approached their house with lingering steps. In front of the steps stood PÁnshin's drozhky. "Come,"—thought LavrÉtzky,—"I will not be an egoist," and entered the house. Inside he met no one, and all was still in the drawing-room; he opened the door, and beheld MÁrya DmÍtrievna, playing picquet with PÁnshin. PÁnshin bowed to him in silence, and the mistress of the house uttered a little scream:—"How unexpected!"—and frowned slightly. LavrÉtzky took a seat by her side, and began to look over her cards.

"Do you know how to play picquet?"—she asked him, with a certain dissembled vexation, and immediately announced that she discarded.

PÁnshin reckoned up ninety, and politely and calmly began to gather up the tricks, with a severe and dignified expression on his countenance. That is the way in which diplomats should play; probably, that is the way in which he was wont to play in Petersburg, with some powerful dignitary, whom he desired to impress with a favourable opinion as to his solidity and maturity. "One hundred and one, one hundred and two, hearts; one hundred and three,"—rang out his measured tone, and LavrÉtzky could not understand what note resounded in it: reproach or self-conceit.

"Is MÁrfa TimofÉevna to be seen?"—he asked, observing that PÁnshin, still with great dignity, was beginning to shuffle the cards. Not a trace of the artist was, as yet, to be observed in him.

"Yes, I think so. She is in her own apartments, up-stairs,"—replied MÁrya DmÍtrievna:—"you had better inquire."

LavrÉtzky went up-stairs, and found MÁrfa TimofÉevna at cards also: she was playing duratchkÍ (fools) with NastÁsya KÁrpovna. RÓska barked at him; but both the old ladies welcomed him cordially, and MÁrfa TimofÉevna, in particular, seemed to be in high spirits.

"Ah! FÉdya! Pray come in,"—she said:—"sit down, my dear little father. We shall be through our game directly. Wouldst thou like some preserves? SchÚrotchka, get him a jar of strawberries. Thou dost not want it? Well, then sit as thou art; but as for smoking—thou must not: I cannot bear thy tobacco, and, moreover, it makes MatrÓs sneeze."

LavrÉtzky made haste to assert that he did not care to smoke.

"Hast thou been down-stairs?"—went on the old woman:—"whom didst thou see there? Is PÁnshin still on hand, as usual? And didst thou see Liza? No? She intended to come hither.... Yes, there she is; speak of an angel...."

Liza entered the room and, on perceiving LavrÉtzky, she blushed.

"I have run in to see you for a minute, MÁrfa TimofÉevna," she began....

"Why for a minute?"—returned the old woman. "What makes all you young girls such restless creatures? Thou seest, that I have a visitor: chatter to him, entertain him."

Liza seated herself on the edge of a chair, raised her eyes to LavrÉtzky,—and felt that it was impossible not to give him to understand how her interview with PÁnshin had ended. But how was that to be done? She felt both ashamed and awkward. She had not been acquainted with him long, with that man who both went rarely to church and bore with so much indifference the death of his wife,—and here she was already imparting her secrets to him.... He took an interest in her, it is true; she, herself, trusted him, and felt attracted to him; but, nevertheless, she felt ashamed, as though a stranger had entered her pure, virgin chamber.

MÁrfa TimofÉevna came to her assistance.

"If thou wilt not entertain him,"—she began, "who will entertain him, poor fellow? I am too old for him, he is too clever for me, and for NastÁsya KÁrpovna he is too old, you must give her nothing but very young men."

"How can I entertain FeÓdor IvÁnitch?"—said Liza.—"If he likes, I will play something for him on the piano,"—she added, irresolutely.

"Very good indeed: that's my clever girl,"—replied MÁrfa TimofÉevna,—"Go down-stairs, my dear people; when you are through, come back; for I have been left the 'fool,' and I feel insulted, and want to win back."

Liza rose: LavrÉtzky followed her. As they were descending the staircase, Liza halted.

"They tell the truth,"—she began:—"when they say that the hearts of men are full of contradictions. Your example ought to frighten me, to render me distrustful of marriage for love, but I...."

"You have refused him?"—interrupted LavrÉtzky.

"No; but I have not accepted him. I told him everything, everything that I felt, and asked him to wait. Are you satisfied?"—she added, with a swift smile,—and lightly touching the railing with her hand, she ran down the stairs.

"What shall I play for you?"—she asked, as she raised the lid of the piano.

"Whatever you like,"—replied LavrÉtzky, and seated himself in such a position that he could watch her.

Liza began to play, and, for a long time, never took her eyes from her fingers. At last, she glanced at LavrÉtzky, and stopped short: so wonderful and strange did his face appear to her.

"What is the matter with you?"—she asked.

"Nothing,"—he replied:—"all is very well with me; I am glad for you, I am glad to look at you,—go on."

"It seems to me,"—said Liza, a few moments later:—"that if he really loved me, he would not have written that letter; he ought to have felt that I could not answer him now."

"That is of no importance,"—said LavrÉtzky:—"the important point is, that you do not love him."

"Stop,—what sort of a conversation is this! I keep having visions of your dead wife, and you are terrible to me!"

"My LizÉta plays charmingly, does she not, Valdemar?"—MÁrya DmÍtrievna was saying to PÁnshin at the same moment.

"Yes,"—replied PÁnshin;—"very charmingly."

MÁrya DmÍtrievna gazed tenderly at her young partner; but the latter assumed a still more important and careworn aspect, and announced fourteen kings.

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