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.

Chapter XXIII

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.”