oman's voice.
Then a death-like silence suddenly ensued.

[Footnote A: The head of the village.]

[Footnote B: A popular phrase, to express a life quiet as the depths
of a river are.]

Nothing stirred, not a sound was audible. The wind did not move the
leaves. The swallows skimmed along he ground one after another without
a cry, and their silent flight made a sad impression upon the heart of
the looker-on. "Here I am, then, at the bottom of the river," again
thought Lavretsky. "And here life is always sluggish and still;
whoever enters its circle must resign himself to his fate. Here there
is no use in agitating oneself, no reason why one should give oneself
trouble. He only will succeed here who traces his onward path as
patiently as the plougher traces the furrow with his plough. And what
strength there is in all around; what robust health dwells in the
midst of this inactive stillness! There under the window climbs the
large-leaved burdock from the thick grass. Above it the lovage extends
its sappy stalk, while higher still the Virgin's tears hang out their
rosy tendrils. Farther away in the fields shines the rye, and the oats
are already in ear, and every leaf or its tree, every blade of grass
on its stalk, stretches itself out to its full extent. On a woman's
love my best years have been wasted!" (Lavretsky proceeded to think.)
"Well, then, let the dulness here sober me and calm me down; let it
educate me into being able to work like others without hurrying." And
he again betook himself to listening to the silence, without expecting
anything, and yet, at the same time, as if incessantly expecting
something. The stillness embraced him on all sides; the sun went down
quietly in a calm, blue sky, on which the clouds floated tranquilly,
seeming as if they knew why and whither they were floating. In the
other parts of the world, at that very moment, life was seething,
noisily bestirring itself. Here the same life flowed silently along,
like water over meadow grass. It was late in the evening before
Lavretsky could tear himself away from the contemplation of this life
so quietly welling forth--so tranquilly flowing past. Sorrow for the
past melted away in his mind as the snow melts in spring; but, strange
to say, never had the love of home exercised so strong or so profound
an influence upon him.

XXI.

In the course of a fortnight Lavretsky succeeded in setting Glafira
Petrovna's little house in order, an