It sometimes happens that two people who are acquainted but not on intimate terms all of a sudden grow more intimate in a few minutes.  This was exactly what came to pass with Lavretsky and Lisa.  “So he is like that,” was her thought as she turned a friendly glance at him.  “So you are like that,” he, too, was thinking.  And thus he was not very much surprised when she began to speak to him about his wife.

“You will forgive me—­I ought not to dare to speak of it to you... but how could you... why did you separate from her?”

Lavretsky shuddered.  He looked at Lisa and sat down beside her.  “My child,” he began, “do not touch on that woman; your hands are tender, but it will hurt me just the same.”

“I know,” Lisa continued as though she had not heard.  “I know she has been to blame.  I don’t want to defend her; but what God has joined, how can you put asunder?  You must forgive, if you wish to be forgiven.”

“She is perfectly contented with her position, I assure you.  But her name ought never to be uttered by you.  You are too pure.  You are not capable of understanding such a creature.”

“Then, if she is like that, why did you marry her?”

Lavretsky got up quickly from his seat.  “Why did I marry her?  I was young and inexperienced; I was deceived, I was carried away by a beautiful exterior.  I knew no women, I knew nothing.  God grant that you may make a happier marriage.”

At that moment Marya Dmitrievna came in.  Lavretsky did not again succeed in being alone with Lisa, but he looked at her in such a way that she felt her heart at rest, and a little ashamed and sorry for him.  Before he left, he had obtained from his cousin a promise that she would come over to Vassilyevskoe one day with her daughters.

When they came Lavretsky made further opportunities to talk with Lisa, while the others were fishing.  He led the conversation round to Panshin.

“Vladimir Nikolaitch has a good heart,” said Lisa, “and he is clever; mother likes him.”

“And do you like him?”

“He is nice; why should I not like him?”

“Ah!” A half ironical, half mournful expression crossed his face.  “Well, may God grant them happiness,” he muttered as though to himself.

Lisa flushed.  “You are mistaken, Fedor Ivanitch.  You are wrong in thinking—­but don’t you like Vladimir Nikolaitch?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why?”

“I think he has no heart.”

“What makes you think he has no heart?”

“I may be mistaken—­time will show, however.”

Lisa grew thoughtful.  Lavretsky began to talk to her about his daily life at Vassilyevskoe.  He felt a need to talk to her, to share with her everything that was passing in his heart; she listened so sweetly, so attentively.  Her few replies and observations seemed to him so intelligent....

IV.—­Love and Duty

Glancing one day at a bundle of French newspapers that had been lying on the table unopened for a fortnight, Lavretsky suddenly came upon a paragraph announcing “Mournful intelligence:  That charming, fascinating Moscow lady, Mme. Lavretsky, died suddenly yesterday.”