he had met, and parodying their conversation.  Lavretsky laughed, but Lemm refused to come out of his corner, where he remained in silence, noiselessly working his limbs like a spider, and wearing a dull and sulky look.  It was not till he rose to take leave that he became at all animated.  Even when sitting in the carriage, the old man at first seemed still unsociable and absorbed in his own thoughts.  But the calm, warm air, the gentle breeze, the dim shadows, the scent of the grass and the birch buds, the peaceful light of the moonless, starry sky, the rhythmical tramp and snorting of the horses, the mingled fascinations of the journey, of the spring, of the night—­all entered into the soul of the poor German, and he began to talk with Lavretsky of his own accord.

XXII.

He began to talk about music, then about Liza, and then again about music.  He seemed to pronounce his words more slowly when he spoke of Liza.  Lavretsky turned the conversation to the subject of his compositions, and offered, half in jest, to write a libretto for him.

“Hm! a libretto!” answered Lemm.  “No; that is beyond me.  I no longer have the animation, the play of fancy, which are indispensable for an opera.  Already my strength has deserted me.  But if I could still do something, I should content myself with a romance.  Of course I should like good words.”

He became silent, and sat for a long time without moving, his eyes fixed on the sky.

“For instance,” he said at length, “something in this way—­’O stars, pure stars!’”

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 passed.  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?”