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.
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.”
