r, and at the same time
they both felt that the embarrassment they had been conscious of for
the last few days had vanished, and would return no more. The old lady
stealthily patted Lavretsky on the cheek, slyly screwed up her eyes, and
shook her head once or twice, adding in a whisper, "You have shut up our
clever friend, many thanks." Everything was hushed in the room; the only
sound was the faint crackling of the wax-candles, and sometimes the tap
of a hand on the table, and an exclamation or reckoning of points; and
the rich torrent of the nightingale's song, powerful piercingly sweet,
poured in at the window, together with the dewy freshness of the night.

Chapter XXXIV

Lisa had not uttered a word in the course of the dispute between
Lavretsky and Panshin, but she had followed it attentively and was
completely on Lavretsky's side. Politics interested her very little; but
the supercilious tone of the worldly official (he had never delivered
himself in that way before) repelled her; his contempt for Russia
wounded her. It had never occurred to Lisa that she was a patriot;
but her heart was with the Russian people; the Russian turn of mind
delighted her; she would talk for hours together without ceremony to the
peasant-overseer of her mother's property when he came to the town, and
she talked to him as to an equal, without any of the condescension of a
superior. Lavretsky felt all this; he would not have troubled himself to
answer Panshin by himself; he had spoken only for Lisa's sake. They had
said nothing to one another, their eyes even had seldom met. But they
both knew that they had grown closer that evening, they knew that
they liked! and disliked the same things. On one point only were they
divided; but Lisa secretly hoped to bring him to God. They sat near
Marfa Timofyevna, and appeared to be following her play; indeed, they
were really following it, but meanwhile their hearts were full, and
nothing was lost on them; for them the nightingale sang, and the stars
shone, and the trees gently murmured, lulled to sleep by the summer
warmth and softness. Lavretsky was completely carried away, and
surrendered himself wholly to his passion--and rejoiced in it. But no
word can express what was passing in the pure heart of the young girl.
It was a mystery for herself. Let it remain a mystery for all. No one
knows, no one has seen, nor will ever see, how the grain, destined to
life and growth, swells and ripens in