almost sad; he could not himself make out clearly
what he was feeling. Marya Dmitrievna stood in front of all, before
the chairs; she crossed herself with languid carelessness, like a grand
lady, and first looked about her, then suddenly lifted her eyes to
the ceiling; she was bored. Marfa Timofyevna looked worried; Nastasya
Karpovna bowed down to the ground and got up with a kind of discreet,
subdued rustle; Lisa remained standing in her place motionless; from
the concentrated expression of her face it could be seen that she was
praying steadfastly and fervently. When she bowed to the cross at the
end of the service, she also kissed the large red hand of the priest.
Marya Dmitrievna invited the latter to have some tea; he took off his
vestment, assumed a somewhat more worldly air, and passed into the
drawing-room with the ladies. Conversation--not too lively--began. The
priest drank four cups of tea, incessantly wiping his bald head with his
handkerchief; he related among other things that the merchant Avoshnikov
was subscribing seven hundred roubles to gilding the "cumpola" of the
church, and informed them of a sure remedy against freckles. Lavretsky
tried to sit near Lisa, but her manner was severe, almost stern, and she
did not once glance at him. She appeared intentionally not to observe
him; a kind of cold, grave enthusiasm seemed to have taken possession
of her. Lavretsky for some reason or other tried to smile and to say
something amusing; but there was perplexity in his heart, and he went
away at last in secret bewilderment .... He felt there was something in
Lisa to which he could never penetrate.

Another time Lavretsky was sitting in the drawing-room listening to the
sly but tedious gossip of Gedeonovsky, when suddenly, without
himself knowing why, he turned round and caught a profound, attentive
questioning look in Lisa's eyes.... It was bent on him, this enigmatic
look. Lavretsky thought of it the whole night long. His love was not
like a boy's; sighs and agonies were not in his line, and Lisa herself
did not inspire a passion of that kind; but for every age love has its
tortures--and he was spared none of them.

Chapter XXXIII

One day Lavretsky, according to his habit, was at the Kalitins'. After
an exhaustingly hot day, such a lovely evening had set in that Marya
Dmitrievna, in spite of her aversion to a draught, ordered all the
windows and doors into the garden to be thrown open, and declared