he is a dilettante, in a word." "But suppose she loves him" Lemm got up 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 it means...

love.

Madame von Kalitin tells her that he is a fine young man, and she obeys Madame von Kalitin because she is still quite a child, though she is nineteen; she says her prayers in the morning and in the evening--and that is very well; but she does not love him.

She can only love what is beautiful, and he is not, that is, his soul is not beautiful." Lemm uttered this whole speech coherently, and with fire, walking with little steps to and fro before the tea-table, and running his eyes over the ground.
"Dearest maestro!" cried Lavretsky suddenly, "it strikes me you are in love with cousin yourself." Lemm stopped short all at once.
"I beg you," he began in an uncertain voice, "do not make fun of me like that.

I am not crazy; I look towards the dark grave, not towards a rosy future." Lavretsky felt sorry for the old man; he begged his pardon.