his eyes, as a
man does from momentary inward pain, and shook his head. Then his
thoughts came to a pause on Liza.

"Here," he thought, "is a new being, who is only just entering upon life.
A splendid young girl, what will become of her? She is comely. A pale,
fresh face, such serious eyes and lips, and an honest and innocent gaze.
It is a pity that she seems to be somewhat enthusiastic. A splendid
figure, and she walks so lightly, and her voice is soft. I greatly like
to see her pause suddenly, listen attentively, without a smile, and then
meditate, and toss back her hair. Really, it strikes me that Panshin is
not worthy of her. But what is there wrong about him? She will traverse
the road which all traverse. I had better take a nap." And Lavretzky
closed his eyes.

He could not get to sleep, but plunged into the dreamy stupor of the
road. Images of the past, as before, arose in leisurely fashion, floated
through his soul, mingling and entangling themselves with other scenes.
Lavretzky, God knows why, began to think about Robert Peel ... about
French history ... about how he would win a battle if he were a general;
he thought he heard shots and shrieks.... His head sank to one side, he
opened his eyes.... The same fields, the same views of the steppe; the
polished shoes of the trace-horse flashed in turn through the billowing
dust; the shirt of the postilion, yellow, with red gussets at the
armpits, puffed out in the wind.... "A pretty way to return to my native
land"--flashed through Lavretzky's head; and he shouted: "Faster!"
wrapped himself up in his cloak, and leaned back harder against his
pillow. The tarantas gave a jolt: Lavretzky sat upright, and opened his
eyes wide. Before him, on a hillock, a tiny hamlet lay outspread; a
little to the right, a small, ancient manor-house was to be seen, with
closed shutters and a crooked porch; all over the spacious yard, from the
very gates, grew nettles, green and thick as hemp; there, also, stood a
small oaken store-house, still sound. This was Vasilievskoe.

The postilion turned up to the gate, and brought the horses to a
standstill; Lavretzky's footman rose on the box, and, as though
preparing to spring down, shouted: "Hey!" A hoarse, dull barking rang
out, but not even the dog showed himself; the lackey again prepared to
leap down, and again shouted: "Hey!" The decrepit barking was renewed,
and, a moment later, a man ran out into the yard, no one could tell
whence,--