“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 lime-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.” “We will leave Russia out of the question for a time; but what do you find amiss in this match?” “Everything is amiss, everything. Lisaveta Mihalovna is a girl of high principles, serious, of lofty feelings, and he... he is a dilettante, in a word.” “But suppose she loves him?” Lemm got up from the bench. “No, she does not love him, that is to say, she is very pure in heart, and does not know herself what it means... love. Madame von Kalitin tells her that he is a fine young man, and she obeys Madame von Kalitin because she is still quite a child, though she is nineteen; she says her prayers in the morning and in the evening--and that is very well; but she does not love him. She can only love what is beautiful, and he is not, that is, his soul is not beautiful.” Lemm uttered this whole speech coherently, and with fire, walking with little steps to and fro before the tea-table, and running his eyes over the ground. “Dearest maestro!” cried Lavretsky suddenly, “it strikes me you are in love with cousin yourself.” Lemm stopped short all at once.