“I understand your position,” she had said to him; and, from the expression of her quick eyes, he could see that she did completely understand his position.  “But you will do me at least this justice—­you will allow that I am an easy person to live with.  I shall not obtrude myself on you, or annoy you.  I only wished to ensure Ada’s future; I want nothing more.”

“Yes, you have attained all your ends,” said Lavretsky.

“There is only one thing I dream of now; to bury myself for ever in seclusion.  But I shall always remember your kindness—­”

“There! enough of that!” said he, trying to stop her.

“And I shall know how to respect your tranquillity and your independence,” she continued, bringing her preconcerted speech to a close.

Lavretsky bowed low.  Varvara understood that her husband silently thanked her.

The next day they arrived at Lavriki towards evening.  A week later Lavretsky went away to Moscow, having left five thousand roubles at his wife’s disposal; and the day after Lavretsky’s departure, Panshine appeared, whom Varvara Pavlovna had entreated not to forget her in her solitude.  She received him in the most cordial manner; and, till late that night, the lofty rooms of the mansion and the very garden itself were enlivened by the sounds of music, and of song, and of joyous French talk.  Panshine spent three days with Varvara Pavlovna.  When saying farewell to her, and warmly pressing her beautiful hands, he promised to return very soon—­and he kept his word.

XLIII.

Liza had a little room of her own on the second floor of her mother’s house, a bright, tidy room, with a bedstead with white curtains in it, a small writing-table, several flower-pots in the corners and in front of the windows, and fixed against the wall a set of bookshelves and a crucifix.  It was called the nursery; Liza had been born in it.

After coming back from the church where Lavretsky had seen her, she set all her things in order with even more than usual care, dusted every thing, examined all her papers and letters from her friends, and tied them up with pieces of ribbon, shut up all her drawers, and watered her flowers, giving each flower a caressing touch.  And all this she did deliberately, quietly, with a kind of sweet and tranquil earnestness in the expression of her face.  At last she stopped still in the middle of the room and looked slowly around her; then she approached the table over which hung the crucifix, fell on her knees, laid her head on her clasped hands, and remained for some time motionless.  Presently Marfa Timofeevna entered the room and found her in that position.  Liza did not perceive her arrival.  The old lady went out of the room on tiptoe, and coughed loudly several times outside the door.  Liza hastily rose and wiped her eyes, which shone, with gathered but not fallen tears.

“So I see you have arranged your little cell afresh,” said Marfa Timofeevna, bending low over a young rose-tree in one of the flower-pots.  “How sweet this smells!”