Part 12 (1/2)

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. Pans.h.i.+ne'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?”