On the following morning, host and guest drank tea in the garden, under an ancient linden-tree.

"Maestro!"—said LavrÉtzky, among other things:—"you will soon have to compose a triumphal cantata."

"On what occasion?"

"On the occasion of the marriage of Mr. PÁnshin to Liza. Did you notice how he was paying court to her last evening? It seems as though everything were going smoothly with them."

"That shall not be!" exclaimed Lemm.

"Why not?"

"Because it is impossible. However,"—he added, after a pause:—"everything is possible in this world. Especially here, with you, in Russia."

"Let us leave Russia out of the question for the present; but what evil do you see in that marriage?"

"All is evil, all. LizavÉta MikhaÍlovna is an upright, serious maiden, with exalted sentiments,—but he ... he is a di-let-tante, in one word."

"But surely she loves him?"

Lemm rose from the bench.

"No, she does not love him, that is to say, she is very pure in heart, and does not know herself what 'love' means. Madam von KalÍtin tells her, that he is a nice young man, and she listens to Madam von KalÍtin, because she is still a perfect child, although she is nineteen years of age: she says her prayers in the morning, she says her prayers in the evening,—and that is very praiseworthy; but she does not love him. She can love only the fine, but he is not fine; that is, his soul is not fine."

Lemm uttered this whole speech coherently and with fervour, pacing back and forth, with short strides, in front of the tea-table, and with his eyes flitting over the ground.

"My dearest Maestro!"—exclaimed LavrÉtzky all at once:—"it strikes me, that you are in love with my cousin yourself."

Lemm came to a sudden halt.

"Please,"—he began in an uncertain voice:—"do not jest thus with me. I am not a lunatic."

LavrÉtzky felt sorry for the old man; he entreated his forgiveness. After tea, Lemm played him his cantata, and at dinner, being instigated thereto by LavrÉtzky himself, he again began to talk about Liza. LavrÉtzky listened to him with attention and curiosity.

"What think you, ChristofÓr FeÓdoritch,"—he said at last—"everything appears to be in order with us now, the garden is in full bloom.... Shall not we invite her here for the day, together with her mother and my old aunt,—hey? Would that be agreeable to you?"

Lemm bent his head over his plate.

"Invite her,"—he said, almost inaudibly.

"And PÁnshin need not be asked?"

"He need not,"—replied the old man, with a half-childlike smile.

Two days later, FeÓdor IvÁnitch set out for the town, to the KalÍtins.