aise, made him repeat several
parts, and, on going away, invited him to spend some days with him.
Lemm, who was conducting him to the door, immediately consented,
pressing his hand cordially. But when he found himself alone in the
fresh, damp air, beneath the just-appearing dawn, he looked round,
half-shut his eyes, bent himself together, and crept back, like a
culprit, to his bed-room. "_Ich bin wohl nicht klug_"--("I must be out
of my wits"), he murmured, as he lay down on his short, hard bed.

He tried to make out that he was ill when, a few days later,
Lavretsky's carriage came for him. But Lavretsky went up into his
room, and persuaded him to go. Stronger than every other argument with
him was the fact that Lavretsky had ordered a piano to be sent out to
the country-house on purpose for him. The two companions went to the
Kalitines' together, and spent the evening there, but not quite so
pleasantly as on the previous occasion. Panshine was there, talking a
great deal about his journey, and very amusingly mimicking the various
proprietors he had met, and parodying their conversation. Lavretsky
laughed, but Lemm refused to come out of his corner, where he remained
in silence, noiselessly working his limbs like a spider, and wearing
a dull and sulky look. It was not till he rose to take leave that he
became at all animated. Even when sitting in the carriage, the old man
at first seemed still unsociable and absorbed in his own thoughts. But
the calm, warm air, the gentle breeze, the dim shadows, the scent of
the grass and the birch buds, the peaceful light of the moonless,
starry sky, the rhythmical tramp and snorting of the horses, the
mingled fascinations of the journey, of the spring, of the night--all
entered into the soul of the poor German, and he began to talk with
Lavretsky of his own accord.

XXII.

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