Part 36

And Márfa Timoféevna ran out of the room, without putting on her cap.

Lavrétzky went quickly up to Liza.

"Liza,"--he began in a beseeching voice:--"we are parting forever, my heart is breaking,--give me your hand in farewell."

Liza raised her head. Her weary, almost extinct gaze rested on him....

"No,"--she said, and drew back the hand which she had already put forward--"no. Lavrétzky"--(she called him thus, for the first time)--"I will not give you my hand. To what end? Go away, I entreat you. You know that I love you,"--she added, with an effort:--"but no ... no."

And she raised her handkerchief to her eyes.

The door creaked.... The handkerchief slipped off Liza's knees. Lavrétzky caught it before it fell to the floor, hastily thrust it into his side pocket, and, turning round, his eyes met those of Márfa Timoféevna.

"Lízotchka, I think thy mother is calling thee,"--remarked the old woman.

Liza immediately rose, and left the room.

Márfa Timoféevna sat down again in her corner. Lavrétzky began to take leave of her.

"Fédya,"--she suddenly said.

"What, aunty?"

"Art thou an honourable man?"

"What?"

"I ask thee: art thou an honourable man?"

"I hope so."

"H'm. But give me thy word of honour that thou art an honourable man."

"Certainly.--But why?"

"I know why. Yes, and thou also, my benefactor, if thou wilt think it over well,--for thou art not stupid,--wilt understand thyself why I ask this of thee. And now, farewell, my dear. Thanks for thy visit; and remember the word that has been spoken, Fédya, and kiss me. Okh, my soul, it is hard for thee, I know: but then, life is not easy for any one. That is why I used to envy the flies; here, I thought, is something that finds life good; but once, in the night, I heard a fly grieving in the claws of a spider,--no, I thought, a thundercloud hangs over them also. What is to be done, Fédya? but remember thy word, nevertheless.--Go."

Lavrétzky emerged from the back entrance, and was already approaching the gate ... when a lackey overtook him.

"Márya Dmítrievna ordered me to ask you to be so good as to come to her,"--he announced to Lavrétzky.

"Say to her, my good fellow, that I cannot at present ..." began Feódor Ivánitch.

"She ordered me to entreat you urgently,"--went on the lackey:--"she ordered me to say, that she is at home."

"But have the visitors gone?"--asked Lavrétzky.

"Yes, sir,"--returned the lackey, and grinned.

Lavrétzky shrugged his shoulders, and followed him.

XLIII

Márya Dmítrievna was sitting alone, in her boudoir, in a sofa-chair, and sniffing eau de Cologne; a glass of orange-flower water was standing beside her, on a small table. She was excited, and seemed to be timorous.