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?"
"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
casement. 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. Panshine'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?"
"Because it's impossible. However," he added after pausing awhile,
"in this world everything is possible. Especially in this country of
yours--in Russia."
"Let us leave Russia out of the question for the present. But what do
you see objectionable in that marriage?"
"Every thing is objectionable--every thing. Lizaveta Mikhailovna is a
serious, true-hearted girl, with lofty sentiments. But he--he is, to
describe him by one word, a _dil-le-tante_"
"But doesn't she love him?"
Lemm rose from his bench.
"No, she does not love him. That is to say, she is very pure of heart,
and does not herself know the meaning of the words, 'to love.' Madame
Von Kalitine tells her that he is an excellent young man; and she
obeys Madame Von Kalitine because she is still quite a child, although
she is now nineteen. She says her prayers every morning; she says her
prayers every evening--and that is very praiseworthy. But she does not
love him. She can love only what is noble. But he is not noble; that
is to say, his soul is not noble."
Lemm uttered the whole of this speech fluently, and with animation,
walking backwards and forwards with short steps in front of the
tea-table, his eyes running along the ground meanwhile.
"Dearest Maestro!" suddenly exclaimed Lavretsky, "I think you are in
love with my cousin yourself."
Lemm suddenly stopped short.
"Please do not jest with me in that way," he began, with faltering
voice. "I am not out of my mind. I look forward to the dark grave, and
not to a rosy future."
Lavretsky felt sorry for the old man, and begged his pardon. After
breakfast Lemm played his cantata, and after dinner, at Lavretsky's
own instigation, he again began to talk about Liza. Lavretsky listened
to him attentively and with curiosity.
"What do you say to this, Christopher Fedorovitch?" he said at last.
"Every thing seems in order here now, and the garden is in full bloom.
Why shouldn't I invite her to come here for the day, with her mother
and my old aunt--eh? Will that be agreeable to you?"
Lemm bowed his head over his plate.
"Invite her," he said, in a scarcely audible voice.
"But we needn't ask Panshine."
"No, we needn't," answered the old man, with an almost childlike
smile.
Two days later Lavretsky went into town and to the Kalatines'.