A House of Gentlefolk

right way, to gain favour in the right place, and to make a push at the right moment. A long, long time ago, his one friend and admirer, also a German and also poor, had published two of Lemm’s sonatas at his own expense⁠—the whole edition remained on the shelves of the music-shops; they disappeared without a trace, as though they had been thrown into a river by night. At last Lemm had renounced everything; the years too did their work; his mind had grown hard and stiff, as his fingers had stiffened. He lived alone in a little cottage not far from the Kalitin’s house, with an old cook he had taken out of the poorhouse (he had never married). He took long walks, and read the Bible and the Protestant version of the Psalms, and Shakespeare in Schlegel’s translation. He had composed nothing for a long time; but apparently, Lisa, his best pupil, had been able to inspire him; he had written for her the cantata to which Panshin had made allusion. The words of this cantata he had borrowed from his collection of hymns. He had added a few verses of his own. It was sung by two choruses⁠—a chorus of the happy and a chorus of the unhappy. The two were brought into harmony at the end, and sang together, “Merciful God, have pity on us sinners, and deliver us from all evil thoughts and earthly hopes.” On the title-page was the inscription, most carefully written and even illuminated, “Only the righteous are justified. A religious cantata. Composed and dedicated to Miss Elisaveta Kalitin, his dear pupil, by her teacher, C. T. G. Lemm.” The words, “Only the righteous are justified” and “Elisaveta Kalitin,” were encircled by rays. Below was written: “For you alone, für Sie allein.” This was why Lemm had grown red, and looked reproachfully at Lisa; he was deeply wounded when Panshin spoke of his cantata before him.

VI

Panshin, who was playing bass, struck the first chords of the sonata loudly and decisively, but Lisa did not begin her part. He stopped and looked at her. Lisa’s eyes were fixed directly on him, and expressed displeasure. There was no smile on her lips, her whole face looked stern and even mournful.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Why did you not keep your word?” she said. “I showed you Christopher Fedoritch’s cantata on the express condition that you said nothing about it to him?”

“I beg your pardon, Lisaveta Mihalovna, the words slipped out unawares.”

“You have hurt his feelings and mine too. Now he will not trust even me.”

“How could I help it, Lisaveta Mihalovna? Ever since I was a little boy I could never see a German without wanting to tease him.”

“How can you say that, Vladimir Nikolaitch? This German is poor, lonely, and broken-down⁠—have you no pity for him? Can you wish to tease him?”

Panshin was a little taken aback.

“You are right, Lisaveta Mihalovna,” he declared. “It’s my everlasting thoughtlessness that’s to blame. No, don’t contradict me; I know myself. So much harm has come to me from my want of thought. It’s owing to that failing that I am thought to be an egoist.”

Panshin paused. With whatever subject he began a conversation, he generally ended by talking of himself, and the subject was changed by him so easily, so smoothly and genially, that it seemed unconscious.

“In your own household, for instance,” he went on, “your mother certainly wishes me well, she is so kind; you⁠—well, I don’t know your opinion of me; but on the other hand your aunt simply can’t bear me. I must have offended her too by some thoughtless, stupid speech. You know I’m not a favourite of hers, am I?”

“No,” Lisa admitted with some reluctance, “she doesn’t like you.”

Panshin ran his fingers quickly over the keys, and a scarcely perceptible smile glided over his lips.

“Well, and you?” he said, “do you too think me an egoist?”

“I know you very little,” replied Lisa, “but I don’t consider you an egoist; on the contrary, I can’t help feeling grateful to you.”

“I know, I know what you mean to say,” Panshin interrupted, and again he ran his fingers over the keys: “for the music and the books I bring you, for the wretched sketches with which I adorn your album, and so forth. I might do all that⁠—and be an egoist all the same. I venture to think that you don’t find me a bore, and don’t think me a bad fellow, but still you suppose that I⁠—what’s the saying?⁠—would sacrifice friend or father for the sake of a witticism.”

“You are careless and forgetful, like all men of the world,” observed Lisa, “that is all.”

Panshin frowned a little.

“Come,” he said, “don’t let us discuss me any more; let us play our sonata. There’s only one thing I must beg of you,” he added, smoothing out the leaves of the book on the music stand, “think what you like of me, call me an egoist even⁠—so be it! but don’t call me a man of the world; that name’s insufferable to me.⁠ ⁠… Anch ’io sono pittore. I too am an artist, though a poor one⁠—and that⁠—I mean that I’m a poor artist, I shall show directly. Let us begin.”

“Very well, let us begin,” said Lisa.

The first adagio went fairly successfully though Panshin made more than one false note. His own compositions and what he had practised thoroughly he played very nicely, but he played at sight badly. So the second part of the sonata⁠—a rather quick allegro⁠—broke down completely; at the twentieth bar, Panshin, who was two bars behind, gave in, and pushed his chair back with a laugh.

“No!” he cried, “I can’t play today; it’s a good thing Lemm did not hear us; he would have had a fit.”

Lisa got up, shut the piano, and turned round to Panshin.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“That’s just like you, that question! You can never