Four hours later he was on his way towards his home.  His tarantass rolled swiftly along the soft cross-road.  There had been no rain for a fortnight.  The atmosphere was pervaded by a light fog of milky hue, which hid the distant forests from sight, while a smell or burning filled the air.  A number of dusky clouds with blurred outlines stood out against a pale blue sky, and lingered, slowly drawn.  A strongish wind swept by in an unbroken current, bearing no moisture with it, and not dispelling the great heat.  His head leaning back on the cushions, his arms folded across his breast, Lavretsky gazed at the furrowed plains which opened fanwise before him, at the cytisus shrubs, at the crows and rooks which looked sideways at the passing carriage with dull suspicion, at the 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.