occasion. Panshin was there, he talked a great deal about his expedition, and very amusingly mimicked and described the country gentry he had seen; Lavretsky laughed, but Lemm would not come out of his corner, and sat silent, slightly tremulous all over like a spider, looking dull and sullen, and he only revived when Lavretsky began to take leave. Even when he was sitting in the carriage, the old man was still shy and constrained; but the warm soft air, the light breeze, and the light shadows, the scent of the grass and the birch-buds, the peaceful light of the starlit, moonless night, the pleasant tramp and snort of the horses—all the witchery of the roadside, the spring and the night, sank into the poor German's soul, and he was himself the first to begin a conversation with Lavretsky.
Chapter XXII
He began talking about music, about Lisa, then of music again. He seemed to enunciate his words more slowly when he spoke of Lisa. Lavretsky turned the conversation on his compositions, and half in jest, offered to write him a libretto.
'H'm, a libretto!' replied Lemm; 'no, that is not in my line; I have not now the liveliness, the play of the imagination, which is needed for an opera; I have lost too much of my power... But if I were still able to do something,—I should be content with a song; of course, I should like to have beautiful words...'
He ceased speaking, and sat a long while motionless, his eyes lifted to the heavens.
'For instance,' he said at last, 'something in this way: 'Ye stars, ye pure stars!''
Lavretsky turned his face slightly towards him and began to look at him.
''Ye stars, pure stars,'' repeated Lemm... ''You look down upon the righteous and guilty alike.. but only the pure in heart,'—or something of that kind—'comprehend you'—that is, no—'love you.' But I am not a poet. I'm not equal to it! Something for that kind, though, something lofty.'
Lemm pushed his hat on to the back of his head; in the dim twilight of the clear night his face looked paler and younger.
''And you too,'' he continued, his voice gradually sinking, ''ye know who loves, who can love, because, pure ones, ye alone can comfort'... No, that's not it at all! I am not a poet,' he said, 'but something of that sort.'
'I am sorry I am not a poet,' observed Lavretsky.
'Vain dreams!' replied Lemm, and he buried himself in the corner of the carriage. He closed his eyes as though he were disposing himself to sleep.
A few instants passed... Lavretsky listened... ''Stars, pure stars, love,'' muttered the old man.
'Love,' Lavretsky repeated to himself. He sank into thought—and his heart grew heavy.
'That is beautiful music you have set to Fridolin, Christopher Fedoritch,' he said aloud, 'but what do you suppose, did that Fridolin do, after the Count had presented him to his wife... became her lover, eh?'
'You think so,' replied Lemm, 'probably because experience,'—he stopped suddenly and turned away in confusion. Lavretsky laughed constrainedly, and also turned away and began gazing at the road.
The stars had begun to grow paler and the sky had turned grey when the carriage drove up to the steps of the little house in Vassilyevskoe. Lavretsky conducted his guest to the room prepared for him, returned to his study and sat down before the window. In the garden a nightingale was singing its last song before dawn, Lavretsky remember that a nightingale had sung in the garden at the Kalitins'; he remembered, too, the soft stir in Lisa's eyes, as at its first notes, they turned towards the dark window. He began to think of her, and his heart was calm again. 'Pure maiden,' he murmured half-aloud: 'pure stars,' he added with a smile, and went peacefully to bed.
But Lemm sat a long while on his bed, a music-book on his knees. He felt as though sweet, unheard melody was haunting him; already he was all aglow and astir, already he felt the languor and sweetness of its presence.. but he could not reach it.
'Neither poet nor musician!' he muttered at last... And his tired head sank wearily on to the pillows.
Chapter XXIII
The next morning the master of the house and his guest drank tea in the garden under an old time-tree.
'Master!' said Lavretsky among other things, 'you will soon have to compose a triumphal cantata.'
'On what occasion?'
'For the nuptials of Mr. Panshin and Lisa. Did you notice what attention he paid her yesterday? It seems as though things were in a fair way with them already.'
'That will never be!' cried Lemm.
'Why?'
'Because it is impossible. Though, indeed,' he added after a short pause, 'everything is possible in this world. Especially here among you in Russia.'
'We will leave Russia out of the question for a time; but what do you find amiss in this match?'
'Everything is amiss, everything. Lisaveta Mihalovna is a girl of high principles, serious, of lofty feelings, and he... he is a dilettante, in a word.'
'But suppose she loves him'
Lemm got up from the bench.
'No, she does not love him, that is to say, she is very pure in heart, and does not know herself what it means... love. Madame von Kalitin tells her that he is a fine young man, and she obeys Madame von Kalitin because she is still quite a child, though she is nineteen; she says her prayers in the morning and in the evening—and that is very well; but she does not love him. She can only love what is beautiful, and he is not, that is, his soul is not beautiful.'
Lemm uttered this whole speech coherently, and with fire, walking with little steps to and fro before the tea- table, and running his eyes over the ground.
'Dearest maestro!' cried Lavretsky suddenly, 'it strikes me you are in love with cousin yourself.'
Lemm stopped short all at once.
'I beg you,' he began in an uncertain voice, 'do not make fun of me like that. I am not crazy; I look towards the dark grave, not towards a rosy future.'
Lavretsky felt sorry for the old man; he begged his pardon. After morning tea, Lemm played him his cantata, and after dinner, at Lavretsky's initiative, there was again talk of Lisa. Lavretsky listened to him with attention and curiosity.
'What do you say, Christopher Fedoritch,' he said at last, 'you see everything here seems in good order now, and the garden is in full bloom, couldn't we invite her over here for a day with her mother and my old aunt... eh? Would you like it?'
Lemm bent his head over his plate.
'Invite her,' he murmured, scarcely audibly.
'But Panshin isn't wanted?'
'No, he isn't wanted,' rejoined the old man with an almost child-like smile.
Two days later Fedor Ivanitch set off to the town to see the Kalitins.
