town: a piano for his--Lemm's--use. Together they went to the Kalitins', and spent the evening, but not so agreeably as on the former occasion. Panshin was there, had a great deal to narrate about his journey, and very amusingly mimicked and illustrated in action the country squires he had seen; Lavretzky laughed, but Lemm did not emerge from his corner, maintained silence, quietly quivered all over like a spider, looked glum and dull, and grew animated only when Lavretzky began to take his leave. Even when he was seated in the calash, the old man continued to be shy and to fidget; but the quiet, warm air, the light breeze, the delicate shadows, the perfume of the grass, of the birch buds, the peaceful gleam of the starry, moonless heaven, the energetic hoof-beats and snorting of the horses, all the charms of the road, of spring, of night,--descended into the heart of the poor German, and he himself was the first to address Lavretzky. XXII He began to talk of music, of Liza, then again of music. He seemed, somehow, to utter his words more slowly when he spoke of Liza. Lavretzky turned the conversation on his compositions, and, half in jest, proposed to write a libretto for him. "H'm, a libretto!"--rejoined Lemm:--"no, that is beyond me: I have not that animation, that play of fancy, which is indispensable for an opera; I have already lost my powers.... But if I could still do something,--I would be satisfied with a romance; of course, I should like some good words...." He relapsed into silence, and sat for a long time motionless, with his eyes raised heavenward. "For example," he said at last:--"something of this sort: 'Ye stars, O ye pure stars'?"... Lavretzky turned his face slightly toward him and began to stare at him. "'Ye stars, ye pure stars,'"--repeated Lemm.... "'Ye gaze alike upon the just and upon the guilty ... but only the innocent of heart,'--or something of that sort ... 'understand you,' that is to say, no,--'love you.' However, I am not a poet ... how should I be! But something in that style, something lofty." Lemm pushed his hat back on the nape of his neck; in the delicate gloom of the light night, his face seemed whiter and more youthful. "'And ye also,'"--he went on, with a voice which gradually grew quieter:--"'ye know who loves, who knows how to love, for ye are pure, ye, alone, can comfort.'... No, that's not right yet! I am not a poet,"--he said:--"but something of that sort...." "I regret that I am not a poet,"--remarked Lavretzky. "Empty visions!" retorted Lemm, and huddled in the corner of the calash. He closed his eyes, as though preparing to go to sleep. Several moments elapsed.... Lavretzky listened.... "'Stars, pure stars, love,'"--the old man was whispering. "Love,"--Lavretzky repeated to himself, became thoughtful, and his soul grew heavy within him.