Liza; Or, "A Nest of Nobles". Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
moment, how to proffer a request at the fitting time. Once, it is true, a very long time ago, one of his friends and admirers, also a German, and also poor, published at his own expense two of Lemm's sonatas. But they remained untouched on the shelves of the music shops; silently they disappeared and left no trace behind, just as if they had been dropped into a river by night.
At last Lemm bade farewell to every thing Old age gained upon him, and he hardened, he grew stiff in mind, just as his fingers had stiffened. He had never married, and now he lived alone in O., in a little house not far from that of the Kalitines, looked after by an old woman-servant whom he had taken out of an alms-house. He walked a great deal, and he read the Bible, also a collection of Protestant hymns, and Shakspeare in Schlegel's translation. For a long time he had composed nothing; but apparently Liza, his best pupil, had been able to arouse him. It was for her that he had written the cantata to which Panshine alluded. The words of this cantata were borrowed by him from his collection of hymns, with the exception of a few verses which he composed himself. It was written for two choruses: one of the happy, one of the unhappy. At the end the two united and sang together, "Merciful Lord, have pity upon us, poof sinners, and keep us from all evil thoughts and worldly desires." On the title-page, very carefully and even artistically written, were the words, "Only the Righteous are in the Right. A Sacred Cantata. Composed, and dedicated to Elizaveta Kalitine, his dear pupil, by her teacher, C.T.G, Lemm." The words "Only the Righteous are in the Right." and "To Elizaveta Kalitine" were surrounded by a circle of rays. Underneath was written, "For you only. Für Sie allein." This was why Lemm grew red and looked askance at Liza; he felt greatly hurt when Panshine began to talk to him about his cantata.
IV.
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