“You’re not in love with him?”
“No. But is that necessary?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mamma likes him,” continued Lisa, “he is kind; I have nothing against him.”
“You hesitate, however.”
“Yes—and perhaps—you, your words are the cause of it. Do you remember what you said three days ago? But that is weakness.”
“O my child!” cried Lavretsky suddenly, and his voice was shaking, “don’t cheat yourself with sophistries, don’t call weakness the cry of your heart, which is not ready to give itself without love. Do not take on yourself such a fearful responsibility to this man, whom you don’t love, though you are ready to belong to him.”
“I’m obeying, I take nothing on myself,” Lisa was murmuring.
“Obey your heart; only that will tell you the truth,” Lavretsky interrupted her. “Experience, prudence, all that is dust and ashes! Do not deprive yourself of the best, of the sole happiness on earth.”
“Do you say that, Fedor Ivanitch? You yourself married for love, and were you happy?”