Worn out, he arrived toward morning at Lemm's. For a long time, he could produce no effect with his knocking; at last, the old man's head, in a nightcap, made its appearance in the window, sour, wrinkled, no longer bearing the slightest resemblance to that inspiredly-morose head which, four and twenty hours previously, had gazed on Lavrétzky from the full height of its artistic majesty.
"What do you want?"—inquired Lemm:—"I cannot play every night; I have taken a decoction."—But, evidently, Lavrétzky's face was very strange: the old man made a shield for his eyes out of his hands, stared at his nocturnal visitor, and admitted him.
Lavrétzky entered the room, and sank down on a chair; the old man halted in front of him, with the skirts of his motley-hued, old dressing-gown tucked up, writhing and mumbling with his lips.
"My wife has arrived,"—said Lavrétzky, raising his head, and suddenly breaking into an involuntary laugh.
Lemm's face expressed surprise, but he did not even smile, and only wrapped himself more closely in his dressing-gown.
"You see, you do not know,"—went on Lavrétzky:—"I imagined ... I read in a newspaper, that she was no longer alive."
"O—o, you read that a short time ago?"—asked Lemm.
"Yes."
"O—o,"—repeated the old man, and elevated his eyebrows.—"And she has arrived?"
"Yes. She is now at my house; but I ... I am an unhappy man."