“Why do you go to church?”

Lisa looked at him in silent amazement.

“I beg your pardon; I did not mean to say that.  I have come to say good-bye to you; I am starting for my village in an hour.”

“Well, mind you don’t forget us,” said Lisa, and went down the steps.

“And don’t forget me.  And listen,” he added; “you are going to church; while you are there, pray for me too.”

Lisa stopped short and turned to face him.  “Certainly,” she said, looking straight at him; “I will pray for you too.  Good-bye.”

In the drawing-room he found Marya Dmitrievna alone.  She began to gossip about a young man whom he had met the previous day, Vladimir Nikolaitch Panshin.

“I will tell you a secret, my dear cousin:  he is simply crazy about my Lisa.  Well, he is of good family, has a capital position, and is a clever fellow; and if it is God’s will, I for my part shall be well pleased.”  She launched into a description of her cares and anxieties and maternal sentiments.  Lavretsky listened in silence, turning his hat in his hands.  Finally he rose, took his leave, and went upstairs to say good-bye to Marfa Timofyevna.

“Tell me, please,” he began; “Marya Dmitrievna has just been talking to me about this—­what’s his name?—­Panshin?  What sort of man is he?”

“What a chatterbox she is, Lord save us!  She told you, I suppose, as a secret that he has turned up as a suitor, and so far, there’s nothing to tell, thank God!  But already she’s gossipping about him.”

“Why thank God?”

“Because I don’t like the fine young gentleman; and so what is there to be glad of in it?

“Well, shall we see you again soon?” the old lady asked, as he rose to depart.

“Very likely, aunt; it’s not so far, you know.”

“Well, go, then, and God be with you.  And Lisa’s not going to marry Panshin; don’t you trouble yourself—­that’s not the sort of husband she deserves.”

* * * * *

Lavretsky lived alone at Vassilyevskoe, and often rode into O------ to
see his cousins.  He saw a good deal of Lisa’s music-master, an old
German named Christopher Theodor Lemm, and, finding much in common with
him, invited him to stay for a few days.

“Maestro,” said Lavretsky one morning at breakfast, “you will soon have to compose a triumphal cantata.”

“On what occasion?”

“On the nuptials of M. Panshin and Lisa.  It seems to me things are in a fair way with them already.”

“That will never be,” cried Lemm.

“Why?”

“Because it is impossible.”

“What, then, do you find amiss with the match?”

“Everything is amiss, everything.  At the age of nineteen Lisavetta is a girl of high principles, serious, of lofty feelings, and he—­he is a dilettante, in a word.”

“But suppose she loves him?”

“No, she does not love him; that is to say, she is very pure in heart, and does not know herself what it means—­love.  Mme. de Kalitin tells her that he is a fine young man, and she obeys because she is quite a child.  She can only love what is beautiful, and he is not—­that is, his soul is not beautiful....”