e long ridges planted with mugwort, wormwood, and
mountain ash. He gazed--and that vast level solitude, so fresh and
so fertile, that expanse of verdure, and those sweeping slopes, the
ravines studded with clumps of dwarfed oaks, the grey hamlets, the
thinly-clad birch trees--all this Russian landscape, so-long by him
unseen, filled his mind with feelings which were sweet, but at the
same time almost sad, and gave rise to a certain heaviness of heart,
but one which was more akin to a pleasure than to a pain. His thoughts
wandered slowly past, their forms as dark and ill-defined as those
of the clouds, which also seemed vaguely wandering there on high. He
thought of his childhood, of his mother, how they brought him to her
011 her death-bed, and how, pressing his head to her breast, she
began to croon over him, but looked up at Glafira Petrovna and became
silent. He thought of his father, at first robust, brazen-voiced,
grumbling at every thing--then blind, querulous, with white,
uncared-for beard. He remembered how one day at dinner, when he had
taken a little too much wine, the old man suddenly burst out laughing,
and began to prate about his conquests, winking his blind eyes
the while, and growing red in the face. He thought of Varvara
Pavlovna--and his face contracted involuntarily, like that of a man
who feels some sudden pain, and he gave his head an impatient toss.
Then his thoughts rested on Liza. "There," he thought, "is a new life
just beginning. A good creature! I wonder what will become of her. And
she's pretty, too, with her pale, fresh face, her eyes and lips so
serious, and that frank and guileless way she has of looking at you.
It's a pity she seems a little enthusiastic. And her figure is good,
and she moves about lightly, and she has a quiet voice. I like her
best when she suddenly stands still, and listens attentively and
gravely, then becomes contemplative and shakes her hair back. Yes, I
agree, Panshine isn't worthy of her. Yet what harm is there in him?
However, as to all that, why am I troubling my head about it? She will
follow the same road that all others have to follow. I had better go
to sleep." And Lavretsky closed his eyes.

He could not sleep, but he sank into a traveller's dreamy reverie.
Just as before, pictures of by-gone days slowly rose and floated
across his mind, blending with each other, and becoming confused with
other scenes. Lavretsky began to think--heaven knows why--about Sir