in her head, and exciting her; whatever position she might find herself in, she had only to imagine lights, a ballroom, rapid whirling to the strains of music—­and her blood was on fire, her eyes glittered strangely, a smile strayed about her lips, and something of bacchanalian grace was visible over her whole frame.  When she reached home Varvara Pavlovna bounded lightly out of the carriage—­only real lionesses know how to bound like that—­and turning round to Gedeonovsky she burst suddenly into a ringing laugh right in his face.

“An attractive person,” thought the counsellor of state as he made his way to his lodgings, where his servant was awaiting him with a glass of opodeldoc:  “It’s well I’m a steady fellow—­only, what was she laughing at?”

Marfa Timofyevna spent the whole night sitting beside Lisa’s bed.

Chapter XLI

Lavretsky spent a day and a half at Vassilyevskoe, and employed almost all the time in wandering about the neighbourhood.  He could not stop long in one place:  he was devoured by anguish; he was torn unceasingly by impotent violent impulses.  He remembered the feeling which had taken possession of him the day after his arrival in the country; he remembered his plans then and was intensely exasperated with himself.  What had been able to tear him away from what he recognised as his duty—­as the one task set before him in the future?  The thirst for happiness—­again the same thirst for happiness.

“It seems Mihalevitch was right,” he thought; “you wanted a second time to taste happiness in life,” he said to himself, “you forgot that it is a luxury, an undeserved bliss, if it even comes once to a man.  It was not complete, it was not genuine, you say; but prove your right to full, genuine happiness Look round and see who is happy, who enjoys life about you?  Look at that peasant going to the mowing; is he contented with his fate? . . .  What! would you care to change places with him?  Remember your mother; how infinitely little she asked of life, and what a life fell to her lot.  You were only bragging it seems when you said to Panshin that you had come back to Russia to cultivate the soil; you have come back to dangle after young girls in your old age.  Directly the news of your freedom came, you threw up everything, forgot everything; you ran like a boy after a butterfly.” . . . .

The image of Lisa continually presented itself in the midst of his broodings.  He drove it away with an effort together with another importunate figure, other serenely wily, beautiful, hated features.  Old Anton noticed that the master was not himself:  after sighing several times outside the door and several times in the doorway, he made up his mind to go up to him, and advised him to take a hot drink of something.  Lavretsky swore at him; ordered him out; afterwards he begged his pardon, but that only made Anton still more sorrowful.  Lavretsky could not stay in the