_ CHAPTER XXVII
Madame Kalitine did not receive Lavretsky over cordially, when he paid her a visit next day. "Ah! he's making a custom of it," she thought. She was not of herself disposed to like him very much, and Panshine, who had got her thoroughly under his influence, had praised him the evening before in a very astutely disparaging manner. As she did not treat him as an honored guest, nor think it necessary to trouble herself about one who was a relation, almost a member of the family circle, before half an hour had elapsed he went out into the garden. There he and Liza strolled along one of the alleys, while Lenochka and Shurochka played around the flower-pots at a little distance from them.
Liza was as quiet as usual, but more than usually pale. She took the folded leaf of the newspaper from her pocket, and handed it to Lavretsky.
"That is terrible news," she said.
Lavretsky made no reply.
"But, after all, perhaps it may not be true."
"That is why I asked you not to mention it to any one."
Liza walked on a little farther.
"Tell me," she began, "are not you sorry?--not at all sorry?"
"I don't know myself what I feel," answered Lavretsky.
"But you loved her once?"
"I did."
"Very much?"
--"Yes."
"And yet you are not sorry for her death?"
"It is not only now that she has become dead for me."
"You are saying what is sinful. Don't be angry with me. You have called me your friend. A friend may say anything. And it really seems terrible to me. The expression on your face yesterday was not good to see. Do you remember your complaining about her not long ago? And at that very time, perhaps, she was already no longer among the living. It is terrible. It is just as if it had been sent you as a punishment."
Lavretsky laughed bitterly.
"You think so?--at all events I am free now."
Liza shuddered.
"Do not speak so any more. What use is your freedom to you? You should not be thinking of that now, but of forgiveness--"
"I forgave her long ago," interrupted Lavretsky, with an impatient gesture.
"No, I don't mean that," answered Liza, reddening; "you have not understood me properly. It is you who ought to strive to get pardoned."
"Who is there to pardon me?"
"Who? Why God. Who can pardon us except God?"
Lavretsky grasped her hand.
"Ah! Lizaveta Mikhailovna!" he exclaimed, "believe me, I have already been punished enough--I have already expiated all, believe me."
"You cannot tell that," said Liza, in a low voice. "You forget. It was not long ago that you and I were talking, and you were not willing to forgive her."
Both of them walked along the alley for a time in silence.
"And about your daughter?" suddenly asked Liza, and then stopped short.
Lavretsky shuddered.
"Oh! don't disturb yourself about her. I have already sent off letters in all directions. The future of my daughter, as you--as you say--is assured. You need not trouble yourself on that score."
Liza smiled sadly.
"But you are right," continued Lavretsky. "What am I to do with my freedom--what use is it to me?"
"When did you get this paper?" asked Liza, without answering his question.
"The day after your visit."
"And have not you--have not you even shed a tear?"
"No; I was thunderstruck. But whither should I look for tears? Should I cry over the past? Why, all mine has been, as it were, consumed with fire. Her fault did not actually destroy my happiness; it only proved to me that for me happiness had never really existed. What, then, had I to cry for? Besides--who knows?--perhaps I should have been more grieved if I had received this news a fortnight sooner."
"A fortnight!" replied Liza. "But what can have happened to make such a difference in that fortnight?"
Lavretsky make no reply at first, and Liza suddenly grew still redder than before.
"Yes, yes! you have guessed it!" unexpectedly cried Lavretsky. "In the course of that fortnight I have learnt what a woman's heart is like when it is pure and clear; and my past life seems even farther off from me than it used to be."
Liza became a little uncomfortable, and slowly turned to where Lenochka and Shurochka were in the flower-garden.
"But I am glad I showed you that newspaper," said Lavretsky, as he followed her. "I have grown accustomed to conceal nothing from you, and I hope you will confide in me equally in return."
"Do you really?" said Liza, stopping still. "In that case, I ought. But, no! it is impossible."
"What is it? Tell me--tell me!"
"I really think I ought not.--However," added Liza, turning to Lavretsky with a smile, "what is the good of a half-confidence? Do you know, I received a letter to-day?"
"From Panshine?"
"Yes, from him. How did you guess that?"
"And he asks for your hand?"
"Yes," replied Liza, looking straight at Lavretsky with serious eyes.
Lavretsky, in his turn, looked seriously at Liza.
"Well, and what answer have you made him?" he said at last.
"I don't know what to answer," replied Liza, unfolding her arms, and letting them fall by her side.
"Why? Do you like him?"
"Yes, I like him; I think he is a good man."
"That is just what you told me three days ago, and in the very same words. But what I want to know is, do you love him--love him with that strong, passionate feeling which we usually call 'love'?"
"In the sense in which you understand the word--No."
"You are not in love with him?"
"No. But is that necessary?"
"How do you mean?"
"Mamma likes him," continued Liza. "He is good: I have no fault to find with him."
"But still you waver?"
"Yes--and, perhaps--you, your words are the cause of that. Do you remember what you said the day before yesterday? But all that is weakness--"
"Oh, my child!" suddenly exclaimed Lavretsky, and his voice trembled as he spoke, "don't be fatally wise--don't stigmatize as weakness the cry of your heart, unwilling to give itself away without love! Do not take upon yourself so fearful a responsibility towards that man, whom you do not love, and yet to whom you would be about to belong."
"I shall only be obeying; I shall be taking nothing upon myself," began Liza.
"Obey your own heart, then. It only will tell you the truth," said Lavretsky, interrupting her. "Wisdom, experience--all that is mere vanity and vexation. Do not deprive yourself of the best, the only real happiness upon earth."
"And do you speak in that way. Fedor Ivanovich? You married for love yourself--and were you happy?"
Lavretsky clasped his hands above his head.
"Ah! do not talk about me. You cannot form any idea of what a young, inexperienced, absurdly brought-up boy may imagine to be love. However, why should one calumniate one's self? I told you just now I had never known happiness. No! I have been happy."
"I think, Fedor Ivanovich," said Liza, lowering her voice--she always lowered her voice when she differed from the person she was speaking to; besides, she felt considerably agitated just then--"our happiness upon earth does not depend upon ourselves--"
"It does depend upon ourselves--upon ourselves:" here he seized both her hands. Liza grew pale and looked at him earnestly, but almost with alarm--"at least if we do not ruin our own lives. For some people a love match may turn out unhappily, but not for you, with your calmness of temperament; with your serenity of soul. I do beseech you not to marry without love, merely from a feeling of duty, self-denial, or the like. All that is sheer infidelity, and moreover a matter of calculation--and worse still. Trust my words. I have a right to say this; a right for which I have paid dearly. And if your God--"
At that moment Lavretsky became aware that Lenochka and Shurochka were standing by Liza's side, and were staring at him with intense astonishment. He dropped Liza's hands, saying hastily, "Forgive me," and walked away towards the house.
"There is only one thing I have to ask you," he said, coming back to Liza. "Don't make up your mind directly, but wait a little, and think over what I have said to you. And even if you don't believe my words, but are determined to marry in accordance with the dictates of mere prudence--even, in that case, Mr. Panshine is not the man you ought to marry. He must not be your husband. You will promise me not to be hasty, won't you?"
Liza wished to reply, but she could not utter a single word. Not that she had decided on being "hasty"--but because her heart beat too strongly, and a feeling resembling that of fear impeded her breathing. _