ve.

"Play it again," he whispered, as soon as the last final chord had
died away.

The old man looked at him with an eagle's glance, and said slowly, in
his native tongue, striking his breast with his hand, "It is I who
wrote that, for I am a great musician," and then he played once more
his wonderful composition.

There were no lights in the room, but the rays of the rising moon
entered obliquely through the window. The listening air seemed to
tremble into music, and the poor little apartment looked like a
sanctuary, while the silvery half-light gave to the head of the old
man a noble and spiritual expression.

Lavretsky came up to him and embraced him. At first Lemm did not
respond to his embrace--even put him aside with his elbow. Then he
remained rigid for some time, without moving any of his limbs, wearing
the same severe, almost repellent, look as before, and only growling
out twice, "Aha!" But at last a change came over him, his face grew
calm, and his head was no longer thrown back. Then, in reply to
Lavretsky's warm congratulations, he first smiled a little, and
afterwards began to cry, sobbing faintly, like a child.

"It is wonderful," he said, "your coming just at this very moment. But
I know every thing--I know all about it."

"You know every thing?" exclaimed Lavretsky in astonishment.

"You have heard what I said," replied Lemm. "Didn't you understand
that I knew every thing?"

* * * * *

Lavretsky did not get to sleep till the morning. All night long he
remained sitting on the bed. Neither did Liza sleep. She was praying.

XXXIII.

The reader knows how Lavretsky had been brought up and educated. We
will now say a few words about Liza's education. She was ten years old
when her father died, who had troubled himself but little about her.
Overwhelmed with business, constantly absorbed in the pursuit of
adding to his income, a man of bilious temperament and a sour and
impatient nature, he never grudged paying for the teachers and tutors,
or for the dress and the other necessaries required by his children,
but he could not bear "to nurse his squallers," according to his own
expression--and, indeed, he never had any time for nursing them. He
used to work, become absorbed in business, sleep a little, play cards
on rare occasions, then work again. He often compared himself to a
horse yoked to a threshing machine. "My life has soon been spent," he
said on his