Panshine struck the first chords of the sonata, in which he played the
bass, loudly and with decision, but Liza did not begin her part. He
stopped and looked at her--Liza's eyes, which were looking straight
at him, expressed dissatisfaction; her lips did not smile, all her
countenance was severe, almost sad.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"Why have you not kept your word?" she said. "I showed you Christopher
Fedorovich's cantata only on condition that you would not speak to him
about it."
"I was wrong, Lizaveta Mikhailovna--I spoke without thinking."
"You have wounded him and me too. In future he will distrust me as
well as others."
"What could I do, Lizaveta Mikhailovna? From my earliest youth I have
never been able to see a German without feeling tempted to tease him."
"What are you saying, Vladimir Nikolaevich? This German is a poor,
lonely, broken man; and you feel no pity for him! you feel tempted to
tease him!"
Panshine seemed a little disconcerted.
"You are right, Lizaveta Mikhailovna," he said "The fault is entirely
due to my perpetual thoughtlessness. No, do not contradict me. I know
myself well. My thoughtlessness has done me no slight harm. It makes
people suppose that I am an egotist."
Panshine made a brief pause. From whatever point he started a
conversation, he generally ended by speaking about himself, and then
his words seemed almost to escape from him involuntarily, so softly
and pleasantly did he speak, and with such an air of sincerity.
"It is so, even in your house," he continued. "Your mamma, it is true,
is most kind to me. She is so good. You--but no, I don't know what you
think of me. But decidedly your aunt cannot abide me. I have vexed her
by some thoughtless, stupid speech. It is true that she does not like
me, is it not?"
"Yes," replied Liza, after a moment's hesitation. "You do not please
her."
Panshine let his fingers run rapidly over the keys; a scarcely
perceptible smile glided over his lips.
"Well, but you," he continued, "do you also think me an egotist?".
"I know so little about you," replied Liza; "but I should not call you
an egotist. On the contrary, I ought to feel grateful to you--"
"I know, I know what you are going to say," interrupted Panshine,
again running his fingers over the keys, "for the music, for the
books, which I bring you, for the bad drawings with which I ornament
your album, and so on, and so on. I may do all that, and yet be an
egotist. I venture to think that I do not bore you, and that you do
not think me a bad man; but yet you suppose that I--how shall I say
it?--for the sake of an epigram would not spare my friend, my father
him self."
"You are absent and forgetful, like all men of the world," said Liza,
"that is all."
Panshine slightly frowned.
"Listen," he said; "don't let's talk any more about me; let us begin
our sonata. Only there is one thing I will ask of you," he added, as
he smoothed the sheets which lay on the music-desk with his hand;
"think of me what you will, call me egotist even, I don't object to
that; but don't call me a man of the world, that name is insufferable.
_Anch'io sono pittore_. I too am an artist, though but a poor one, and
that--namely, that I am a poor artist--I am going to prove to you on
the spot. Let us begin."
"Very good, let us begin," said Liza.
The first adagio went off with tolerable success, although Panshine
made several mistakes. What he had written himself, and what he had
learnt by heart, he played very well, but he could not play at sight
correctly. Accordingly the second part of the sonata--tolerably quick
allegro--would not do at all. At the twentieth bar Panshine, who was
a couple of bars behind, gave in, and pushed back his chair with a
laugh.
"No!" he exclaimed, "I cannot play to-day. It is fortunate that Lemm
cannot hear us; he would have had a fit."
Liza stood up, shut the piano, and then turned to Panshine.
"What shall we do then?" she asked.
"That question is so like you! You can never sit with folded hands for
a moment. Well then, if you feel inclined, let's draw a little
before it becomes quite dark. Perhaps another Muse--the Muse of
painting--what's her name? I've forgotten--will be more propitious to
me. Where is your album? I remember the landscape I was drawing in it
was not finished."
Liza went into another room for the album, and Panshine, finding
himself alone, took a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, rubbed
his nails and looked sideways at his hands. They were very white and
well shaped; on the second finger of the left hand he wore a spiral
gold ring.
Liza returned; Panshine seated himself by the window and opened the
album.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "I see you have begun to copy my landscape--and
capitally--very good indeed--only--just give me the pencil--the
shadows are not laid in black enough. Look here."
And Panshine added some long strokes with a vigorous touch. He always
drew the same landscape--large dishevelled trees in the foreground, in
the middle distance a plain, and on the horizon an indented chain of
hills. Liza looked over his shoulder at his work.
"In drawing, as also in life in general," said Panshine, turning his
head now to the right, now to the left, "lightness and daring--those
are the first requisites."
At this moment Lemm entered the room, and after bowing gravely, was
about to retire; but Panshine flung the album and pencil aside, and
prevented him from leaving the room.
"Where are you going, dear Christoph Fedorovich? Won't you stay and
take tea?"
"I am going home," said Lemm, in a surly voice; "my head aches."
"What nonsense! do remain. We will have a talk about Shakspeare."
"My head aches," repeated the old man.
"We tried to play Beethoven's sonata without you," continued Panshine,
caressingly throwing his arm over the old man's shoulder and smiling
sweetly; "but we didn't succeed in bringing it to a harmonious
conclusion. Just imagine, I couldn't play two consecutive notes
right."
"You had better have played your romance over again," replied Lemm;
then, escaping from Panshine's hold he went out of the room.
Liza ran after him, and caught him on the steps.
"Christopher Fedorovich, I want to speak to you," she said in German,
as led him across the short green grass to the gate. "I have done you
a wrong--forgive me."
Lemm made no reply.
"I showed your cantata to Vladimir Nikolaevich; I was sure he would
appreciate it, and, indeed, he was exceedingly pleased with it."
Lemm stopped still.
"It's no matter," he said in Russian, and then added in his native
tongue,--"But he is utterly incapable of understanding it. How is it
you don't see that? He is a _dilettante_--that is all."
"You are unjust towards him," replied Liza. "He understands every
thing, and can do almost every thing himself."
"Yes, every thing second-rate--poor goods, scamped work. But that
pleases, and he pleases, and he is well content with that. Well, then,
bravo!--But I am not angry. I and that cantata, we are both old fools!
I feel a little ashamed, but it's no matter."
"Forgive me, Christopher Fedorovich!" urged Liza anew.
"It's no matter, no matter," he repeated a second time in Russian.
"You are a good girl.--Here is some one coming to pay you a visit.
Good-bye. You are a very good girl."
And Lemm made his way with hasty steps to the gate, through which
there was passing a gentleman who was a stranger to him, dressed in a
grey paletot and a broad straw hat. Politely saluting him (he bowed
to every new face in O., and always turned away his head from his
acquaintances in the street--such was the rule he had adopted), Lemm
went past him, and disappeared behind the wall.
The stranger gazed at him as he retired with surprise, then looked at
Liza, and then went straight up to her.