Meanwhile the evening had come on, Marya Dmitrievna expressed a desire
to return home, and the little girls were with difficulty torn away from
the pond, and made ready. Lavretsky declared that he would escort his
guests half-way, and ordered his horse to be saddled. As he was handing
Marya Dmitrievna into the coach, he bethought himself of Lemm; but the
old man could nowhere be found. He had disappeared directly after the
angling was over. Anton, with an energy remarkable for his years, slammed the doors, and called sharply, "Go on, coachman!" the coach started. Marya Dmitrievna and Lisa were seated in the back seat; the children and their maid in the front. The evening was warm and still, and the windows were open on both sides. Lavretsky trotted near the coach on the side of Lisa, with his arm leaning on the door--he had thrown the reigns on the neck of his smoothly-pacing horse--and now and then he exchanged a few words with the young girl. The glow of sunset was! disappearing; night came on, but the air seemed to grow even warmer. Marya Dmitrievna was soon slumbering, the little girls and the maid fell asleep also. The coach rolled swiftly and smoothly along; Lisa was bending forward, she felt happy; the rising moon lighted up her face, the fragrant night on breeze breathed on her eyes and cheeks. Her hand rested on the coach door near Lavretsky's hand. And he was happy; borne along in the still warmth of the night, never taking his eyes off the good young face, listening to the young voice that was melodious even in a whisper, as it spoke of simple, good things, he did not even notice that he had gone more than half-way. He did not want to wake Marya Dmitrievna, he lightly pressed Lisa's hand and said, I think we are friends now, aren't we?" She nodded, he stopped his horse, and the coach rolled away, lightly swaying and oscillating up and down; Lavretsky turned homeward at a walking pace. The witchery of the summer night enfolded him; all around him seemed suddenly so strange--and at the same time so long known; so sweetly familiar. Everywhere near and afar--and one could see in to the far distance, though the eye could not make out clearly much of what was seen--all was at peace; youthful, blossoming life seemed expressed in this deep peace. Lavretsky's horse stepped out bravely, swaying evenly to right and left; its great black shadow moved along beside it. There was something strangely sweet in the tramp of its hoofs, a strange charm in the ringing cry of the quails. The stars were lost in a bright mist; the moon, not yet at the full, shone with steady brilliance; its light was shot in an azure stream over the sky, and fell in patches of smoky gold on the thin clouds as they drifted near. The freshness of the air drew a slight moisture into the eyes, sweetly folded all the limbs, and flowed freely into the lungs. Lavretsky rejoiced in it, and was glad at his own rejoicing. "Come, we are still alive," he thought; "we have not been altogether destroyed by"--he did not say--by whom or by what. Then he fell to thinking of Lisa, that she could hardly love Panshin, that if he had met her under different circumstances--God knows what might have come of it; that he undertook Lemm though Lisa had no words of "her own:" but that, he thought, was not true; she had words of her own. "Don't speak light of that," came back to Lavretsky's mind. He rode a long way with his head bent in thought, then drawing himself up, he slowly repeated aloud:
"And I have burnt all I adored, And now I adore all that I burnt."
Then he gave his horse a switch with the whip, and galloped all the way
home.
Dismounting from his horse, he looked round for the last time with an
involuntary smile of gratitude. Night, still, kindly night stretched
over hills and valleys; from afar, out of its fragrant depths--God knows
whence--whether from the heavens or the earth--rose a soft, gentle
warmth. Lavretsky sent a last greeting to Lisa, and ran up the steps.