"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 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.
* * * * *