without moving, his eyes
fixed on the sky.

"For instance," he said at length, "something in this way--'O stars,
pure stars!'"

Lavretsky turned a little, and began to regard him attentively.

"'O stars, pure stars!'" repeated Lemm, "'you look alike on the just
and the unjust. But only the innocent of heart'--or something of that
kind--'understand you'--that is to say, no--'love you.' However, I
am not a poet. What am I thinking about! But something of that
kind--something lofty."

Lemm pushed his hat back from his forehead. Seen by the faint twilight
of the clear night, his face seemed paler and younger.

"'And you know also,'" he continued, in a gradually lowered voice,
"'you know those who love, who know how to love; for you are pure, you
alone can console.' No; all that is not what I mean. I am not a poet.
But something of that kind."--

"I am sorry that I am not a poet either," remarked Lavretsky.

"Empty dreams!" continued Lemm, as he sank into the corner of the
carriage. Then he shut his eyes as if he had made up his mind to go to
sleep;

Several minutes passed. Lavretsky still listened.

"Stars, pure stars ... love'" whispered the old man.

"Love!" repeated Lavretsky to himself. Then he fell into a reverie,
and his heart grew heavy within him.

"You have set 'Fridolin' to charming music, Christopher Fedorovich,"
he said aloud after a time. But what is your opinion? This Fridolin,
after he had been brought into the presence of the countess by her
husband, didn't he then immediately become her lover--eh?"

"You think so," answered Lemm, "because, most likely, experience--"

He stopped short, and turned away in confusion.

Lavretsky uttered a forced laugh. Then he too turned away from his
companion, and began looking out along the road.

The stars had already begun to grow pale, and the sky to turn grey,
when the carriage arrived before the steps of the little house at
Vasilievskoe. Lavretsky conducted his guest to his allotted room, then
went to his study, and sat down in front of the window. Out in the
garden a nightingale was singing its last song before the dawn.
Lavretsky remembered that at the Kalitines' also a nightingale had
sung in the garden. He remembered also the quiet movement of Liza's
eyes when, at its first notes, she had turned toward the dark
casement. He began to think of her, and his heart grew calm.

"Pure maiden," he said, in a half-whisper, "pure stars," he added,
with a