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"H'm, a libretto!" replied Lemm; "no, that is not in my line; I have not now the liveliness, the play of the imagination, which is needed for an opera; I have lost too much of my power... But if I were still able to do something, I should be content with a song; of course, I should like to have beautiful words..."
Did you notice what attention he paid her yesterday? It seems as though things were in a fair way with them already." "That will never be!" cried Lemm. "Why?" "Because it is impossible. Though, indeed," he added after a short pause, "everything is possible in this world. Especially here among you in Russia."
He began to talk about music, then about Liza, and then again about music. He seemed to pronounce his words more slowly when he spoke of Liza. Lavretsky turned the conversation to the subject of his compositions, and offered, half in jest, to write a libretto for him. "Hm! a libretto!" answered Lemm. "No; that is beyond me.
Fancy, I couldn't play two notes together correctly." "You'd better have sung your song again," replied Lemm, removing Panshin's hands, and he walked away. Lisa ran after him. She overtook him on the stairs. "Christopher Fedoritch, I want to tell you," she said to him in German, accompanying him over the short green grass of the yard to the gate, "I did wrong forgive me." Lemm made no answer.
Panshin and Lisa remained alone in the room; she fetched the sonata, and opened it; both seated themselves at the piano in silence. Overhead were heard the faint sounds of scales, played by the uncertain fingers of Lenotchka. Christopher Theodor Gottlieb Lemm was born in 1786 in the town of Chemnitz in Saxony. His parents were poor musicians.
After dinner Lemm drew out of his coat-tail pocket, into which he had continually been fumbling, a small roll of music-paper and compressing his lips he laid it without speaking on the pianoforte. It was a song composed by him the evening before, to some old-fashioned German words, in which mention was made of the stars.
"I showed Vladimir Nikolaitch your cantata; I felt sure he would appreciate it, and he did like it very much really." Lemm stopped. "It's no matter," he said in Russian, and then added in his own language, "but he cannot understand anything; how is it you don't see that? He's a dilettante and that's all!"
"Me forget you " "That's enough, good-bye. Do not come after me." "Lisa!" Lavretsky was beginning. "Good-bye, good-bye!" she repeated, pulling her veil still lower and almost running forward. Lavretsky looked after her, and with bowed head, turned back along the street. He stumbled up against Lemm, who was also walking along with his eyes on the ground, and his hat pulled down to his nose.
With greater grandeur than before the sounds went clanging forth. With strong, sonorous stream did they flow along and in them, as it seemed to him, all his happiness spoke and sang. He looked round. The sounds came from the two upper windows of a small house. "Lemm!" he exclaimed, and ran up to the door of the house. "Lemm, Lemm!" he repeated loudly.
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.
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