smile, and then quietly lay down to sleep.

But Lemm sat for a long time on his bed, with a sheet of music on his
knees. It seemed as if some sweet melody, yet unborn, were intending
to visit him. He already underwent the feverish agitation, he already
felt the fatigue and the delight, of its vicinity; but it always
eluded him.

"Neither poet nor musician!" he whispered at last; and his weary head
sank heavily upon the pillow.

* * * * *

The next morning Lavretsky and his guest drank their tea in the
garden, under an old lime-tree.

"Maestro," said Lavretsky, among other things, "you will soon have to
compose a festal cantata."

"On what occasion?"

"Why, on that of Mr. Panshine's marriage with Liza. Didn't you observe
what attention he paid her yesterday? All goes smoothly with them
evidently."

"That will never be!" exclaimed Lemm.

"Why?"

"Because it's impossible. However," he added after pausing awhile,
"in this world everything is possible. Especially in this country of
yours--in Russia."

"Let us leave Russia out of the question for the present. But what do
you see objectionable in that marriage?"

"Every thing is objectionable--every thing. Lizaveta Mikhailovna is a
serious, true-hearted girl, with lofty sentiments. But he--he is, to
describe him by one word, a _dil-le-tante_"

"But doesn't she love him?"

Lemm rose from his bench.

"No, she does not love him. That is to say, she is very pure of heart,
and does not herself know the meaning of the words, 'to love.' Madame
Von Kalitine tells her that he is an excellent young man; and she
obeys Madame Von Kalitine because she is still quite a child, although
she is now nineteen. She says her prayers every morning; she says her
prayers every evening--and that is very praiseworthy. But she does not
love him. She can love only what is noble. But he is not noble; that
is to say, his soul is not noble."

Lemm uttered the whole of this speech fluently, and with animation,
walking backwards and forwards with short steps in front of the
tea-table, his eyes running along the ground meanwhile.

"Dearest Maestro!" suddenly exclaimed Lavretsky, "I think you are in
love with my cousin yourself."

Lemm suddenly stopped short.

"Please do not jest with me in that way," he began, with faltering
voice. "I am not out of my mind. I look forward to the dark grave, and
not to a rosy future."

Lavretsky felt sorry for the old