Lavretsky turned a little, and began to regard him attentively.

"'O stars, pure stars!'" repeated Lemm, "'you look alike on the just and the unjust. But only the innocent of heart'--or something of that kind--'understand you'--that is to say, no--'love you.' However, I am not a poet. What am I thinking about! But something of that kind--something lofty."

Lemm pushed his hat back from his forehead. Seen by the faint twilight of the clear night, his face seemed paler and younger.

"'And you know also,'" he continued, in a gradually lowered voice, "'you know those who love, who know how to love; for you are pure, you alone can console.' No; all that is not what I mean. I am not a poet.

But something of that kind."--

"I am sorry that I am not a poet either," remarked Lavretsky.

"Empty dreams!" continued Lemm, as he sank into the corner of the carriage. Then he shut his eyes as if he had made up his mind to go to sleep;

Several minutes pa.s.sed. Lavretsky still listened.

"Stars, pure stars ... love'" whispered the old man.

"Love!" repeated Lavretsky to himself. Then he fell into a reverie, and his heart grew heavy within him.

"You have set 'Fridolin' to charming music, Christopher Fedorovich,"

he said aloud after a time. But what is your opinion? This Fridolin, after he had been brought into the presence of the countess by her husband, didn't he then immediately become her lover--eh?"

"You think so," answered Lemm, "because, most likely, experience--"

He stopped short, and turned away in confusion.

Lavretsky uttered a forced laugh. Then he too turned away from his companion, and began looking out along the road.

The stars had already begun to grow pale, and the sky to turn grey, when the carriage arrived before the steps of the little house at Vasilievskoe. Lavretsky conducted his guest to his allotted room, then went to his study, and sat down in front of the window. Out in the garden a nightingale was singing its last song before the dawn.

Lavretsky remembered that at the Kalitines' also a nightingale had sung in the garden. He remembered also the quiet movement of Liza's eyes when, at its first notes, she had turned toward the dark cas.e.m.e.nt. He began to think of her, and his heart grew calm.

"Pure maiden," he said, in a half-whisper, "pure stars," he added, with a smile, and then quietly lay down to sleep.

But Lemm sat for a long time on his bed, with a sheet of music on his knees. It seemed as if some sweet melody, yet unborn, were intending to visit him. He already underwent the feverish agitation, he already felt the fatigue and the delight, of its vicinity; but it always eluded him.

"Neither poet nor musician!" he whispered at last; and his weary head sank heavily upon the pillow.

The next morning Lavretsky and his guest drank their tea in the garden, under an old lime-tree.

"Maestro," said Lavretsky, among other things, "you will soon have to compose a festal cantata."

"On what occasion?"

"Why, on that of Mr. Panshine's marriage with Liza. Didn't you observe what attention he paid her yesterday? All goes smoothly with them evidently."

"That will never be!" exclaimed Lemm.

"Why?"

"Because it's impossible. However," he added after pausing awhile, "in this world everything is possible. Especially in this country of yours--in Russia."

"Let us leave Russia out of the question for the present. But what do you see objectionable in that marriage?"

"Every thing is objectionable--every thing. Lizaveta Mikhailovna is a serious, true-hearted girl, with lofty sentiments. But he--he is, to describe him by one word, a _dil-le-tante_"

"But doesn't she love him?"

Lemm rose from his bench.

"No, she does not love him. That is to say, she is very pure of heart, and does not herself know the meaning of the words, 'to love.' Madame Von Kalitine tells her that he is an excellent young man; and she obeys Madame Von Kalitine because she is still quite a child, although she is now nineteen. She says her prayers every morning; she says her prayers every evening--and that is very praiseworthy. But she does not love him. She can love only what is n.o.ble. But he is not n.o.ble; that is to say, his soul is not n.o.ble."

Lemm uttered the whole of this speech fluently, and with animation, walking backwards and forwards with short steps in front of the tea-table, his eyes running along the ground meanwhile.

"Dearest Maestro!" suddenly exclaimed Lavretsky, "I think you are in love with my cousin yourself."

Lemm suddenly stopped short.

"Please do not jest with me in that way," he began, with faltering voice. "I am not out of my mind. I look forward to the dark grave, and not to a rosy future."

Lavretsky felt sorry for the old man, and begged his pardon. After breakfast Lemm played his cantata, and after dinner, at Lavretsky's own instigation, he again began to talk about Liza. Lavretsky listened to him attentively and with curiosity.

"What do you say to this, Christopher Fedorovitch?" he said at last.

"Every thing seems in order here now, and the garden is in full bloom.

Why shouldn't I invite her to come here for the day, with her mother and my old aunt--eh? Will that be agreeable to you?"

Lemm bowed his head over his plate.

"Invite her," he said, in a scarcely audible voice.

"But we needn't ask Panshine."

"No, we needn't," answered the old man, with an almost childlike smile.

Two days later Lavretsky went into town and to the Kalatines'.

XXIV.

He found them all at home, but he did not tell them of his plan immediately. He wanted to speak to Liza alone first. Chance favored him, and he was left alone with her in the drawing-room. They began to talk. As a general rule she was never shy with any one, and by this time she had succeeded in becoming accustomed to him. He listened to what she said, and as he looked at her face, he musingly repeated Lemm's words, and agreed with him. It sometimes happens that two persons who are already acquainted with each other, but not intimately, after the lapse of a few minutes suddenly become familiar friends--and the consciousness of this familiarity immediately expresses itself in their looks, in their gentle and kindly smiles, in their gestures themselves. And this happened now with Lavretsky and Liza. "Ah, so that's what's you're like!" thought she, looking at him with friendly eyes. "Ah, so that's what's you're like!" thought he also; and therefore he was not much surprised when she informed him, not without some little hesitation, that she had long wanted to say something to him, but that she was afraid of vexing him.

"Don't be afraid, speak out," he said, standing still in front of her.

Liza raised her clear eyes to his.

"You are so good," she began--and at the same time she thought, "yes, he is really good"--"I hope you will forgive me. I scarcely ought to have ventured to speak to you about it--but how could you--why did you separate from your wife?"