"But is it true," Lavretsky interrupted him, "they called her the old witch?"
"What sort of people called her so, I should like to know!" replied Anton with an air of displeasure.
"And little father," the old man one day found courage to ask, "what about our mistress, where is she pleased to fix her residence?"
"I am separated from my wife," Lavretsky answered with an effort, "please do not ask questions about her."
"Yes, sir," replied the old man mournfully.
After three weeks had passed by, Lavretsky rode into O——- to the Kalitins, and spent an evening with them. Lemm was there; Lavretsky took a great liking to him. Although thanks to his father, he played no instrument, he was passionately fond of music, real classical music. Panshin was not at the Kalitins' that evening. The governor had sent him off to some place out of the town. Lisa played alone and very correct; Lemm woke up, got excited, twisted a piece of paper into a roll, and conducted. Marya Dmitrievna laughed at first, as she looked at him, later on she went off to bed; in her own words, Beethoven was too agitating for her nerves. At midnight Lavretsky accompanied Lemm to his lodging and stopped there with him till three o'clock in the morning. Lemm talked a great deal; his bent figure grew erect, his eyes opened wide and flashed fire; his hair even stood up on his forehead. It was so long since any one had shown him any sympathy, and Lavretsky was obviously interested in him, he was plying him with sympathetic and attentive questions. This touched the old man; he ended by showing the visitor his music, played and even sang in a faded voice some extracts from his works, among others the whole of Schiller's ballad, Fridolin, set by him to music. Lavretsky admired it, made him repeat some passages, and at parting, invited him to stay a few days with him. Lemm, as he accompanied him as far as the street, agreed at once, and warmly pressed his hand; but when he was left standing alone in the fresh, damp air, in the just dawning sunrise, he looked round him, shuddered, shrank into himself, and crept up to his little room, with a guilty air. "Ich bin wohl nicht klug" (I must be out of my senses), he muttered, as he lay down in his hard short bed. He tried to say that he was ill, a few days later, when Lavretsky drove over to fetch him in an open carriage; but Fedor Ivanitch went up into his room and managed to persuade him. What produced the most powerful effect upon Lemm was the circumstance that Lavretsky had ordered a piano from town to be sent into the country expressly for him.
They set off together to the Kalitins' and spent the evening with them, but not so pleasantly as on the last occasion. Panshin was there, he talked a great deal about his expedition, and very amusingly mimicked and described the country gentry he had seen; Lavretsky laughed, but Lemm would not come out of his corner, and sat silent, slightly tremulous all over like a spider, looking dull and sullen, and he only revived when Lavretsky began to take leave. Even when he was sitting in the carriage, the old man was still shy and constrained; but the warm soft air, the light breeze, and the light shadows, the scent of the grass and the birch-buds, the peaceful light of the starlit, moonless night, the pleasant tramp and snort of the horses—all the witchery of the roadside, the spring and the night, sank into the poor German's soul, and he was himself the first to begin a conversation with Lavretsky.
Chapter XXII
He began talking about music, about Lisa, then of music again. He seemed to enunciate his words more slowly when he spoke of Lisa. Lavretsky turned the conversation on his compositions, and half in jest, offered to write him a libretto.
"H'm, a libretto!" replied Lemm; "no, that is not in my line; I have not now the liveliness, the play of the imagination, which is needed for an opera; I have lost too much of my power... But if I were still able to do something,—I should be content with a song; of course, I should like to have beautiful words..."
He ceased speaking, and sat a long while motionless, his eyes lifted to the heavens.
"For instance," he said at last, "something in this way: 'Ye stars, ye pure stars!'"
Lavretsky turned his face slightly towards him and began to look at him.
"'Ye stars, pure stars,'" repeated Lemm... "'You look down upon the righteous and guilty alike.. but only the pure in heart,'—or something of that kind—'comprehend you'—that is, no—'love you.' But I am not a poet. I'm not equal to it! Something for that kind, though, something lofty."
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.