[Footnote A:  Part of a Russian proverb.]

“But is it true,” interrupted Lavretsky, “that people used to call her an old witch?”

“But, then, who called her so?” replied Anton, with an air of discontent.

“But what is our mistress doing now, batyushka?” the old man ventured to ask one day.  “Where does she please to have her habitation?”

“I am separated from my wife,” answered Lavretsky, with an effort.  “Please don’t ask me about her.”

“I obey,” sadly replied the old man.

At the end of three weeks Lavretsky rode over to O., and spent the evening at the Kalitines’ house.  He found Lemm there, and took a great liking to him.  Although, thanks to his father, Lavretsky could not play any instrument, yet he was passionately fond of music—­of classical, serious music, that is to say.  Panshine was not at the Kalitines’ that evening, for the Governor had sent him somewhere into the country.  Liza played unaccompanied, and that with great accuracy.  Lemm grew lively and animated, rolled up a sheet of paper, and conducted the music.  Maria Dmitrievna looked at him laughingly for a while, and then went off to bed.  According to her, Beethoven was too agitating for her nerves.

At midnight Lavretsky saw Lemm home, and remained with him till three in the morning.  Lemm talked a great deal.  He stooped less than usual, his eyes opened wide and sparkled, his very hair remained pushed off from his brow.  It was so long since any one had shown any sympathy with him, and Lavretsky was evidently interested in him, and questioned him carefully and attentively.  This touched the old man.  He ended by showing his music to his guest, and he played, and even sang, in his worn-out voice, some passages from his own works; among others, an entire ballad of Schiller’s that he had set to music—­that of Fridolin.  Lavretsky was loud in its praise, made him repeat several parts, and, on going away, invited him to spend some days with him.  Lemm, who was conducting him to the door, immediately consented, pressing his hand cordially.  But when he found himself alone in the fresh, damp air, beneath the just-appearing dawn, he looked round, half-shut his eyes, bent himself together, and crept back, like a culprit, to his bed-room. “Ich bin wohl nicht klug”—­("I must be out of my wits"), he murmured, as he lay down on his short, hard bed.

He tried to make out that he was ill when, a few days later, Lavretsky’s carriage came for him.  But Lavretsky went up into his room, and persuaded him to go.  Stronger than every other argument with him was the fact that Lavretsky had ordered a piano to be sent out to the country-house on purpose for him.  The two companions went to the Kalitines’ together, and spent the evening there, but not quite so pleasantly as on the previous occasion.  Panshine was there, talking a great deal about his journey, and very amusingly mimicking the various proprietors