He became silent, and sat for a long time 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.