"'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.

"Neither poet nor musician!" he muttered at last... And his tired head
sank wearily on to the pi