her face, the fragrant night breeze blew on her cheeks and neck.
She felt at ease. Her hand lay on the door of the carriage, alongside of
Lavretzky's hand. And he, also, felt at ease: he was being borne along
through the tranquil nocturnal warmth, never taking his eyes from the
kind young face, listening to the youthful voice, which was ringing even
in a whisper, saying simple, kindly things; he did not even notice that
he had passed the half-way point. He did not wish to awaken Marya
Dmitrievna, pressed Liza's hand lightly, and said:--"We are friends,
now, are we not?" She nodded, he drew up his horse. The carriage rolled
on, gently swaying and lurching: Lavretzky proceeded homeward at a
footpace. The witchery of the summer night took possession of him;
everything around him seemed so unexpectedly strange, and, at the same
time, so long, so sweetly familiar; far and near,--and things were
visible at a long distance, although the eye did not comprehend much of
what it beheld,--everything was at rest; young, blossoming life made
itself felt in that very repose. Lavretzky's horse walked briskly,
swaying regularly to right and left; its huge black shadow kept pace
alongside; there was something mysteriously pleasant in the tramp of its
hoofs, something cheerful and wondrous in the resounding call of the
quail. The stars were hidden in a sort of brilliant smoke; the moon, not
yet at the full, shone with a steady gleam; its light flooded the blue
sky in streams, and fell like a stain of smoky gold upon the thin
cloudlets which floated past; the crispness of the air called forth a
slight moisture in the eyes, caressingly enveloped all the limbs, poured
in an abundant flood into the breast. Lavretzky enjoyed himself, and
rejoiced at his enjoyment. "Come, life is still before us," he
thought:--"it has not been completely ruined yet by...." He did not
finish his sentence, and say who or what had ruined it.... Then he began
to think of Liza, that it was hardly likely that she loved Panshin; that
had he met her under different circumstances,--God knows what might have
come of it; that he understood Lemm, although she had no "words of her
own." Yes, but that was not true: she had words of her own.... "Do not
speak lightly of that," recurred to Lavretzky's memory. He rode for a
long time, with drooping head, then he straightened himself up, and
slowly recited:

"And I have burned all that I worshipped,