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is the soul, a sensitive, pure soul—and Liza will always be
nearest my heart."
She threw herself into his arms—and this was to be the
fatal hour for her purity! Erast felt an unusual excitement in
bis blood—Liza had never seemed so delightful—her caresses
had never touched him so strongly—her kisses had never been
so inflamed—she knew nothing, suspected nothing, feared
nothing—the blackness of the night fed desire—not a single
star showed in the sky—-no ray of light could illumine the
error. Erast felt himself trembling—Liza did too, not knowing
the cause-—not knowing what was happening to her. . . . Oh,
Liza, Liza! Where is your Guardian Angel? Where is—your
innocence!
The error took only a moment. Liza did not understand her
emotions; she was astonished and kept asking questions. Erast
was silent—he searched for words and did not find them.
"Oh! I am afraid," said Liza, "I am afraid of what has
happened to us! I feel as if I were dying, that my soul . . . No,
I cannot say that! . . . You are silent, Erast? Are you sigh-
ing? . . . My God! What is this?" Meanwhile lightning flashed
and thunder rolled. Liza began to tremble all over. "Erast,
Erast!" she said, "I am frightened! I am afraid that the
thunder will kill me like a criminal!" The storm raged men-
acingly; rain poured from the black clouds—it seemed that
Nature was lamenting the loss of Liza's purity. Erast tried to
calm Liza, and he took her to the cabin. Tears rolled from
her eyes as she parted with him. "Oh, Erast! Assure me that
we shall be just as happy as always!"—"We shall, Liza, we
shall!" he answered. "God grant it so! I can do nothing but
believe your words: after all, I love you! Only, in m y
heart. . , But enough of this! Farewell! Tomorrow, tomorrow
we'll see each other,"
.Their meetings continued—but how everything had
changed! Erast was no longer able to be satisfied only by the
innocent caresses of his Liza—only by her gazes filled with
love—only by the touch of a hand, by kisses, by pure em-
braces. He wanted more, more, and finally he was unable to
desire anything—and whoever knows his own heart, whoever
has pondered the nature of its tender pleasures, will certainly
agree with me that the fulfillment of all desires is the most
dangerous temptation of love. Liza was no longer for Erast
Poor Liza
that angel of purity who previously had inflamed his
imagination and delighted his soul. Platonic love had given
way to those feelings of which he could not be proud, and
which were no longer hew to him. As concerns Liza, having
given herself to him completely, she lived and breathed for
him alone, and like a lamb she submitted to his will in
everything and found her happiness in his pleasure. She saw a
change in him and often said: "You were gayer before; we
were more at ease and happier before; and I was never
before so afraid of losing your love!" Sometimes in parting
he would say to her: "Tomorrow, Liza, I cannot meet you;
some important business has come up." And each time Liza
sighed at these words.
Finally she did not see him for five days in a row, and was
greatly disturbed; on the sixth day he came with a downcast
expression and said to her: "My dear Liza! I must say fare-
well to you for a while. You know that we are at war; I am
in the service; my regiment is going on a campaign." Liza
grew pale and almost fainted.
Erast caressed her; he said that he would always love his
dear Liza and that upon his return he hoped never to part
with her again. For a long while she was silent; then she burst
into bitter tears, grasped his arm and, gazing at him with all
the tenderness of love, asked, "You cannot stay?"—"I can,"
he answered, "but only with the greatest ignominy, with the
greatest blemish on my honor. Everyone would despise me
and shun me as a coward, as an unworthy son of my father-
land."—"Oh! Since that's the case," said Liza, "then go, go
wherever God wills! But they might kill you."—"Death for
the Fatherland is not terrible, dear Liza."—"I shall die just
as soon as you leave this earth."—"But why think like this?
I hope to stay alive, I hope to return to you, to my friend."—
"God grant, God grant it so! Each day, each hour I shall pray
for it. Oh! Why do I not know how to read or Write! You
would inform me of everything that happens to you; and I
would write to you—of my tears."—"No, spare yourself,
Liza; spare yourself for your friend. I don't want you to weep
without me."—"You cruel man! You would think to deprive
me of even this comfort! No! I shall cease weeping after we
part only when my heart dries up."—"Think of that pleasant
moment when we shall again see each other."—"I shall, I shall
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NIKOLAI M. KARAMZIN
think of it! Oh! If only it would come soon! My
dear, kind Erast! Remember, remember your poor Liza, who
loves you even more than herself!"
But I am unable to describe all that they said on this
occasion. The next day was to be their last meeting.
Erast wanted to bid farewell to Liza's mother, who could
not hold back her tears when she heard that her kind, hand-
some gentleman had to go to war. He forced her to take some
money from him, saying: "During my absence I do not want
Liza to sell her work, which we agreed belongs to me." The
old woman showered him with blessings. "God grant that
you return safely to us," she said, "and that I shall see you
once more in this life! Perhaps my Liza will find herself a
desirable bridegroom by that time. How I would thank God
if you could come to our wedding! And when Liza has chil-
dren, you know, sir, that you must be their godfather! Oh,
how I want to live until then!" Liza stood alongside her
mother and did not dare to glance at her. The reader can
easily imagine what she was feeling at this moment.
But what feelings she had then, when Erast, embracing her
for the last time, for the last time clasping her to his heart,
said: "Farewell, Liza! . . ." What a touching picture! The
sunrise, like a crimson sea, inundated the eastern sky. Erast
stood under the branches of the tall oak, holding in his arms
his pale, despondent, bereaved friend, who, bidding him fare-
well, said farewell to her own soul. All Nature attended in
silence.
Liza sobbed—Erast wept—he left her—she fell—she got
up on her knees, lifted her hands to the sky and watched
Erast, who was moving away—farther—farther—and finally
disappeared—the sun rose, and Liza, abandoned, pitiful, lost
all her feelings and consciousness.
She came to—and the world seemed to her doleful and sad.
All the pleasures of Nature had disappeared for her together
with the one dear to her heart. Oh! she thought, Why have I
been abandoned in this wasteland? What keeps me from
flying after dear Erast? I am not afraid of war; I am only
afraid without my friend. I want to live with him, to die with
him, or to save his precious life by my own death. Wait, wait,
my dear! I am flying to you! She was ready to run after
Erast; but the thought: I have mother! stopped her. Liza
heaved a sigh, and with bowed head set off quietly for her
Poor Liza
cabin. From this hour hence her days were days of
grief and sorrow, which had to be hidden from her tender
mother: thus her heart suffered even more! Her heart found
relief only in those moments when Liza, alone in the depths of
the forest, could freely pour forth her tears and moan over
the absence of her dear one. The sad turtledove would often
join its plaintive voice to her moaning. But sometimes—
though they were very rare—a golden ray of hope, a ray of
solace brightened the gloom of her .sorrow. When he returns
to me, how happy I will be! How everything will change! Her
gaze brightened at the thought and her cheeks became rosy,
and Liza smiled like a May morning after a stormy night.
About two months passed in this way.
One day Liza had to go into Moscow in order to buy some
rosewater with which her mother treated her eyes. On one of
the big streets she met a magnificent coach, and in the coach
she caught sight of Erast. "Oh!" Liza cried out, and she raced
toward it; but the coach passed by and turned into a court-
yard, Erast stepped out and was about to go into the entrance
of a huge house, when suddenly he found himself—in Liza's
embrace. He turned pale—then, answering not a word to her
exclamation, took her by the arm, led her into his study, shut
the door, and said to her: "Liza! Things have changed: I am
engaged to marry; you must leave me alone now, and for your
own peace of mind forget me. I loved you, and I love you
now; that is, I wish all the best for you. Here are a hundred
rubles—take them"—he put the money in her pocket—"allow
me to kiss you for the last time—and go on home." Before
Liza was even able to come to her senses, he led her out of
his study and said to the servant, "See this girl to the street."
At this moment my heart, is surging with blood. I forget
the man in Erast—I am ready to damn him—but my tongue
will not move. I look up to the sky, and a tear trickles down
my face. Oh! Why am I not writing a novel, instead of this
sorrowful story of something that really happened?
And did Erast betray Liza, when he told her that he was
entering the army? No, he was in fact in the army; but instead
of battling the enemy, he played cards and gambled away
nearly all his estate. Soon peace was concluded, and Erast
returned to Moscow burdened with debts. There remained
only one way by which he could repair his circumstances—
marry an elderly, rich widow who had long been in love with
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